Biggles and Cruise of the Condor

by W E Johns

  'Bad as that, are they?' muttered Biggles grimly.

  'Worse!'

  'What about Dickpa—I mean my uncle—though?'

  'That's a bigger problem. You've got to get him out of that jail, and quickly, though how it's going to be done is more than I can say.'

  'Where is this jail or whatever it is?'

  'In the middle of the town; at the corner of the Cathedral and the Stretta Fontana. You can't mistake the street, because there's a double row of palms on either side. I dropped one of the policemen a couple of dollars and he told me they're keeping him there until tomorrow, as da Silva wants to talk to him. Then, unless he tells the Mayor something he wants to know, they are going to take him to the proper jail in the native end of the town. If they ever get him in there, you'll never see him again. It's full of criminals, the scum of the earth, and half of them rotting with fever, leprosy, and God knows what other horrors. It's a pest-house, not a jail. If you want to see him alive again you'll have to get him out tonight.'

  'In that case he's coming out tonight,' muttered Biggles through set teeth, 'and God help Mr. Slimy da Silva if he gets in my way. Thanks very much, Mr. Carter. It's jolly good of you to take all these risks for us. We shan't forget it.'

  'Well, you get off down the river as fast as you can before they come after you. They'd tear this machine to bits if they got their hands on it, to prevent you going on with this business. And, by the way, I found out from the post office that Blattner and Steinburg are in New Orleans. Apparently they guessed as soon as you gave them the slip in England that you'd make for here, and they started off back as hard as they could come. Why they went by New Orleans is more than I can say, but they'll be here shortly, you can bet your boots on that.'

  'I see,' replied Biggles. 'Well, you get off back now before you get into trouble. Dickpa left your address with us in case things went wrong, but I shan't worry you unless it is unavoidable. If things become serious, I should be glad if you would get a message down to the Consul at Rio. I should hate to see you get pulled into the jail, too, through trying to help us.'

  'Rot! Never mind about that; we're bound to stick to each other. If one Englishman can't help another in a case like this, it's a poor show.'

  'That's the way to talk,' agreed Biggles. 'What time will you be along with the petrol?'

  'As soon after dark as I can manage it.'

  'Fine. We'll be there. Goodbye. See you later.'

  Biggles watched the launch until it reached the bank before he turned to the others with a queer grimace. 'It looks as if we've got to get busy—'

  'By Jingo it does!' cried Algy, starting up and pointing towards the bank some distance above the place where Carter had just gone ashore. 'He was only just in time. I don't like the look of this little lot coming now.'

  Biggles swung round on his heel and took one look at a large launch that was churning the river into foam as it sped towards them. A group of men in uniform stood near the bow. 'Swing the prop, Smyth,' he snapped, dropping into his seat and grabbing the self-starter.

  The mechanic swung the heavy metal propeller to fill the cylinders of the engine with gas, and then leapt away to the aft cockpit. 'Contact!' he cried.

  'Gr-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r,' whirred the self-starter, and with a bellow of sound the engine sprang to life. A shout from the rapidly approaching launch reached Biggles's ears, but he ignored it. The amphibian moved forward, slowly at first, but with ever-increasing speed. Turning in a wide curve as it reached the middle of the river, it sped like an arrow down the stream, leaving a broad ribbon of creamy foam in its wake.

  A shot rang out, and the vicious rip of a bullet through the top plane brought a snarl to Biggles's lips. 'You murdering hounds!' he choked, and pushed the throttle wide open. The amphibian leapt forward like a live thing, skimmed along the surface of the water for a moment, and then rose gracefully into the air, climbing steeply. Two minutes later, still climbing, Biggles saw the creek, with the ruined hut on its bank, below him; he did not stop, but flew on into the quickly fading light. Not until he was several miles below the town did he turn, throttle back, and start a long glide back towards the rendezvous.

  Darkness fell with tropical suddenness just as the keel of the Condor broke the surface of the river just below the deserted creek. The pilot listened intently for a moment, and then, as there seemed to be no sign of pursuit, he taxied into the creek itself and switched off.

  'Well, that's that,' he muttered, relieved, for the prospect of landing after dark on a strange, crocodile-infested river did not fill him with enthusiasm. He had not touched his engine since he began the glide down, so he hoped that their landing had passed both unseen and unheard. Fortunately the machine had finished its run quite close to the bank, so there was no need to taxi, the gentle current carrying them down until they rested on the flat, muddy beach.

  'Well, what next?' asked Algy, as he stepped ashore and moored the amphibian, lightly, in case another hurried departure became necessary.

  'We can do nothing but wait here until the petrol comes,' replied Biggles. 'There can't be more than half an hour's supply left in the tanks, and I shall feel a lot happier with a full load on board. Goodness knows when we shall get any more. If he brings more than will go into the tanks, we'll stack it in the cabin. But it's getting Dickpa out that I'm worried about; and that, without knowing a single word of Portuguese—I think that's the lingo they talk here—may be a wee bit difficult. You'll have to stay here and look after the machine,' he went on firmly. 'I'll take Smyth with me on this trip into the town. No! It's no use arguing about it,' he went on quickly. 'I know you'd like to come, and I'd like to have you with me, but you're the only other one of the party who can fly, so you must stay with the machine. If we lose that, we're sunk. After Dickpa, that must be our first consideration. Whatever happens, they mustn't get the Condor. Once we've got some juice in the tanks and Dickpa on board, they won't see us for dust and small pebbles. Hark! There's a car coming now. Pass me that 12-bore out of the cabin. I'm taking no chances. They took the first crack at us, and they're going to find that two can play at that game before we're finished.'

  The car had stopped quite near them and a dark figure appeared, approaching through the forest belt that lined the shore.

  'Is that you, Bigglesworth?' called a voice softly.

  'OK, Carter,' replied Biggles. 'Did you get the juice?'

  'Yes, it's all here.'

  'Good man! Let's see about getting it on board, then. All hands on deck. Smyth, you get the big funnel out and stand by to pour into the tanks while we feed you with the tins. Sling the empties away; we shan't want 'em again.'

  For an hour they all toiled with feverish speed and without a break, and at the end of that time the tanks were full and an extra ten tins were stowed in the cabin.

  'That's a good job done,' muttered Biggles with satisfaction, mopping his streaming face, for the moist heat on the edge of the tropical forest was intense. 'Are you going straight back to Manaos now, Carter?'

  'Yes. I've nothing else to wait here for, unless you want anything.'

  'Do you mind if I come with you?'

  'Not a bit. Come by all means, although I'm hanged if I can see any way of getting your uncle out. If I can be of any help— '

  'You've taken enough risks already,' interrupted Biggles. 'Is there any chance of bribing the guards, do you think?'

  'Not a hope. I've tried that already. They're willing enough to accept money, but they're scared stiff of da Silva. If your uncle got away, they'd be for the high jump—and they know it. No, I'm afraid it's force or nothing.'

  'Force it is, then,' replied Biggles shortly. 'Come on, Smyth. I may need some help. Algy, you stand by for a quick move.'

  He dived into the cabin and emerged with two revolvers and a steel mooring-spike. 'Take this, Smyth,' he said, handing the mechanic one of the revolvers, 'but don't use it unless you have to, and then use the butt for preference. If we kill somebody, the fat
will be in the fire with a vengeance. All set? Off we go, then. Cheerio, Algy. Keep your prop on contact.'

  A brief handshake and they had climbed aboard the old Ford and were on their way back to Manaos.

  Chapter 6

  Escape

  'Just what do you think you are going to do when you get into the town?' asked Carter as the lights of Manaos shone through the trees ahead.

  'I haven't the faintest idea, and that's a fact,' admitted Biggles reluctantly. 'I'm not even trying to make a plan until I've seen the lay-out of the place where they've locked my uncle up.'

  'Well, I'd better drop you here, I think,' continued the agent, slowing up. 'They haven't seen you yet—at least, not at close quarters—so they don't know you, which is all to your advantage; but if they see us together they'll form a shrewd idea who you are, and you'll be a marked man.'

  'Good enough,' replied Biggles. 'That sounds wise to me. We don't want to involve you in trouble, anyway. How do you get to this place—this Stretta something-or-other?'

  'Fontana. Go straight down the avenue which is a continuation of this track, take the third turning on the right, and it's about a hundred yards down on the left. You can't miss it; there's a gendarme on duty at the door.'

  'How many guards have they inside, do you think?'

  'To tell you the truth, I don't know; probably not more than two or three. As you go in through the door there is an office on the right where the chief officer sits. There's a short corridor leading straight ahead, and the cells are at the end, facing you, at right angles to it. The doors are open, grille-like affairs, like the American prisons,' concluded Carter.

  'I see,' answered Biggles, climbing out of the car. 'Just a minute before you go.' He stooped and groped around the axle of the car until his hand was covered with black oil, which he smeared over his face. 'You'd better do the same, Smyth,' he advised; 'we shan't be quite so conspicuous if our faces are a little less white. Well, goodbye, Mr. Carter, in case we don't see you again,' he went on, turning to the agent. 'Many thanks for all you've done. I'll see that my uncle knows about it.'

  With a parting wave, he set off with Smyth up the long avenue that opened in front of them. They took the third turning, as directed, passed the cathedral, and pulled up opposite a low building in front of which two gendarmes were idly talking and smoking.

  'Well, there it is,' muttered Biggles, half to himself, taking a careful look around to mark his bearings. It was still early, and most of the shops on either side of the street were still lighted. 'This would be easier if we could speak the language,' he went on quietly. 'We had better try and locate the river first, to get a line of retreat in case we have to bolt. We don't want to trail all the way back by that infernal forest track. A boat would be easier. The river should be down here somewhere—yes, here it is,' he continued, as the moonlit river came into view.

  There were plenty of small boats by the water's edge, and there appeared to be no obstacle in the way of purloining one. After a cautious look around, Biggles picked out a canoe, and, having satisfied himself that there were paddles in it, he moved it a few yards nearer the water. 'That's the one,' he said quietly. 'If we get separated, make for here. Come on, let's get back.'

  Again Biggles regarded the jail from the opposite side of the road. 'If I could speak their beastly language I should try bribing the guards; I've plenty of money on me,' muttered Biggles.

  'Well, as we can't, that isn't much use,' observed Smyth shortly.

  'You don't often speak, but when you do you say something,' grinned Biggles. 'Stand fast while I have a closer look.'

  He walked on a few yards, crossed the road, and then strolled slowly back past the jail. It was a wretched, dilapidated-looking place, like most of the other buildings in the vicinity, and built of adobe, or mud bricks. Through a small window he could see the chief gendarme at his desk, exactly as Carter had described. He retraced his footsteps, and joined Smyth on the opposite side of the road again.

  'If we could get everybody out of the building for a couple of minutes it would be simple,' he mused, 'but how to do it— that's the question.'

  They strolled a few yards farther on, and suddenly Biggles paused in his stride and nudged Smyth in the ribs. Just beyond the jail was an open yard filled with wooden cases and several piles of dried palm fronds, which were evidently used as packing for the stacks of adobe bricks that stood at the far end of the yard. Biggles eyed it reflectively, and then, followed by Smyth, crossed over to it. A flimsy fence with a gate, which they quickly ascertained was locked, separated the yard from the road. He turned as a car pulled up a short distance away and a man alighted, lit a cigarette, and then disappeared into a private house. Biggles strolled idly towards the car, his eyes running over it swiftly. It was a Ford, and he noted the spare tin of petrol fastened to the running-board.

  'I want that tin,' he hissed. 'Get it off while I stand in front to hide you as much as I can.'

  It was the work of a moment for Smyth to unscrew the butterfly bolts that held the tin in place.

  'Good. This way,' whispered Biggles, and led the way back to the yard. He looked quickly up and down the road. There were one or two pedestrians about, but no one was taking the slightest notice of them. With his jack-knife Biggles unscrewed the metal cap of the petrol-tin and then tossed the whole thing on to the nearest heap of palm fronds. Leaning against the gate, they could hear the steady gurgle of the liquid as it gushed out. 'So far so good,' he muttered softly. 'Now, Smyth, when we move we've got to make it snappy. Speed is everything.' He turned and looked again at the car, which was still standing by the curb. 'I wonder,' he mused. 'I wonder. It would make a good job of the thing,' he went on, half to himself. 'Did you bring your nerve with you, Smyth?'

  The old flight-sergeant chuckled. 'Never left it behind yet, sir,' he smiled.

  'Have you got enough to drive that car slap through this gate? I want to make a noise, a real bang, the bigger the better. Drive the car straight up the road on the other side, then swerve right across straight through the gate. It's only thin, and will go to pieces like matchwood, so you shouldn't get hurt; I wouldn't suggest it if there was any chance of that. Have a box of matches in your hand, and when you hit that bunch of palm leaves strike one and set the whole works on fire. Then let out a good yell or two and bolt for the canoe. Wait for me there. Have you got that?'

  Smyth nodded. 'I have, sir,' he grinned delightedly. 'I've wanted to do something like that all my life.'

  'Well, now's your chance,' retorted Biggles brightly; 'go to it.'

  He turned on his heel and walked away without another word. Outside the jail he stopped and leaned against a tall palm, as if in contemplation of the starry sky. A couple of yards away a single gendarme squatted on the step in front of the open doors of the jail, and, except for a faint breeze which rustled the leathery palm-tops, all was quiet. One by one the lights in the shops were going out; a few wayfarers were meandering slowly, after the fashion of the tropics, along the street.

  Biggles heard a car start up not far away and braced himself for what was to follow, feeling for the mooring-pin under his coat. He heard the car coming nearer and a clash of gears as the driver made a bad change. There was a sudden shout of alarm, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the gendarme spring to his feet. Then came a screeching of skidding wheels and even Biggles, who knew what was coming, was utterly unprepared for the crash that followed. In the sultry calm of the tropic night it sounded like the end of the world. For a fleeting instant there was silence, a silence in which Biggles stood rooted to the ground, too stunned to move. Then a long, piercing yell rent the air.

  Biggles turned pale. 'Strewth,' he whispered, 'he must have killed himself.' But there was no time for idle speculation. Pandemonium broke loose. Windows were flung open, dogs barked, doors banged, and there was a great noise of shouting and running feet. A lurid glow, quickly increasing in intensity, illuminated the scene in a ghastly glare.

 
; The gendarme who had been on duty had disappeared at a run at the first crash, and now three or four others, some hatless and others coatless, bundled out of the door and dashed towards the scene of ruin on which a crowd was now converging in a babble of wild excitement. Biggles waited for no more. He swung round on his heel and darted towards the open door, almost colliding with the chief gendarme on the steps. But the official was too taken up with the unusual occurrence to even notice him. With the mooring-spike in his hand, Biggles sprinted down the corridor towards what looked like a row of cages and from which came an excited chatter.

  'Dickpa!' he shouted. 'Where are you?'

  'Here.'

  Biggles leapt towards the iron grille through which Dickpa was peering and dancing with excitement.

  'Take it steady,' said Biggles, as cold as ice now the actual action was in progress. Inserting his spike between the grille and the wall, and using the latter as a fulcrum for his lever, he flung his weight behind the instrument.

  'Look out!' yelled Dickpa.

  Biggles ducked as he turned. Something swished through the air over his head; it was a truncheon wielded by a gigantic policeman. Had the blow, struck with all the power of the man's arm, reached its mark, Biggles's part in the affair would have ended forthwith. As it was, however, the blow spent itself on empty air; the man overbalanced from his own impetus, stumbled, and then pitched headlong over the foot that Biggles had flung out to trip him. The pilot was on him in a flash. His spike descended in a short, gleaming arc that landed on the back of the fallen man's skull. Turning, he whipped out his revolver and thrust it through the bars into Dickpa's hands.