by W E Johns
“Where are we going?” asked the soldier eagerly.
“Follow me and don’t ask questions,” answered Biggles tersely. “Guard the rear and plug anyone who tries to interfere. I haven’t quite finished yet and this is no time or place for romantic notions of chivalry.” He went on to the front of the house.
Here he found things easier than he expected. The lorry was still there.
There was no one with it, everyone apparently having hurried to the end of the house where the fire was raging to a brisk accompaniment of exploding small-arms ammunition. Sparks were flying and stray bullets whistling in all directions.
Biggles walked quickly to the lorry, which he saw had been partly loaded with miscellaneous equipment. With the soldier standing guard he climbed into the seat, released the handbrake, started the engine, put it in gear and jumped down. As the vehicle started to move he tossed a bomb into the back of it.
From the cover of the palms that lined the track, as they watched it run out of control down the hill, Biggles remarked, grimly: “Whatever happens now they’ll remember our visit.”
“Are you telling me?” replied the soldier fervently.
“What’s your name?”
“Alan Macdonald.”
“Fair enough. That name fits with hard fighting.”
The lorry failed to achieve a miracle by keeping to the track at the bottom of the hill. It crashed through the wooden railings of the bridge, disappeared from sight, and banged and bumped its way to the bottom of the ravine. Then came an explosion. Orange flames leapt up to lick the overhanging tree-ferns.
“I think that’ll about do,” said Biggles evenly. “We’ll see about getting home. This way.”
Eyes alert and pistol ready for trouble he walked quickly towards the lower end of the footpath that led up to the reservoir —or at any rate, towards the place where the Chinese boy had told him he would find it.
This was behind a small power-house in a vegetable garden at the west end of the house. Just as they reached it however, Alan, who was watching the rear, touched Biggles on the arm. “Give me a minute, will you?” he asked in a queer tone of voice.
Biggles stopped inside the nearest trees. “What’s the idea?”
Alan pointed. “You see that swine?”
Looking back, Biggles saw, gesticulating where the lorry had stood, the leader of the party that had captured Alan. Vandor was there, and two or three others. “Which particular hog do you mean?” he asked.
“The boss of the gang that ambushed us,” answered Alan. “He shot my chum, Angus Gordon, in cold blood, when he was wounded.”
“What about it?”
“Where I come from we try to square these accounts. I may never have another chance.”
“Okay,” agreed Biggles. “Go ahead, but don’t be long.” He understood how the boy was feeling.
Alan turned back.
Biggles sat down, his eyes on the group standing in the open. In the light of the fires now raging it was like a scene in a play. There was no question of hearing anything because the uproar at the end of the house, and the crackle of exploding cartridges in the ravine, drowned all other sounds. A faint smile crossed his face as he saw the man whom Alan had pointed out, stiffen, stumble and fall. The others ran. A bullet cut up the dirt at Vandor’s feet—and another. Then he appeared to dive into the ground. The others of the party ran on and disappeared round the end of the building.
Presently Alan came back. He was breathing hard and there was a wild look in his eyes. He tried to speak, but the only sound that came was something like a sob.
Biggles appeared not to notice it. “Nice work,” he complimented. “Feel better after that?”
“A lot,” said Alan, shortly. “I used all my ammunition, though,” he added.
“You’d never have found a better target,” asserted Biggles. “Come on, we’ve some way to go and it’s all uphill.”
“Where I come from we’ve plenty of hills,” stated Alan.
Nothing more was said. They set off up a narrow muddy path made slippery by the rain that had been falling on and off for some time.
If the truth must be told, although he did not mention this to Alan, Biggles was nothing like as happy as he pretended to be. After a disconcerting beginning the mission had gone off well, but the weather conditions had introduced a factor which he had not taken into account.
It had been fine when he started. But it was obvious that the monsoon had arrived. If it turned out to be only the advance guard of the real bad weather, so well and good. But if it was the monsoon proper, Ginger, and the others who were in reserve, would have a job to find the place—at all events, without flying very low, which would reveal their presence, and would, in hill country, be dangerous in itself. However, he went on, slipping and sliding and sweating in the sticky jungle heat, seizing upon any hand-hold to lessen the effort of climbing. It rained at intervals, sometimes heavily, sometimes only a drizzle. Rain water dripped monotonously from the pendant palm fronds. The overheated jungle steamed, although an occasional break in the clouds allowed a little wan light to trickle through.
After a while Biggles said: “Let’s have a breather. This is heavy going.” He sat down in the mud and with a handkerchief already wet mopped mud, sweat and mosquitoes, from his face. He told Alan where they were going, and why. While doing this he looked back down the path up which they had come. Marapang itself could not be seen, but the site was marked by a fierce glow from which rolled a steady cloud of smoke. Then his attention switched to several points of light, strung out and moving, and clearly defined.
“We’d better be moving,” he said. “The blighters must have spotted which way we went and are coming after us.”
They went on, with frequent glances behind at the pursuing lights.
Dawn broke grey and cheerless before the top of the path was reached, but Biggles knew from the distance they had covered that it must be close.
When at last they came to it, they found they had arrived, as was to be expected, at the dam itself.
Biggles considered the sheet of water with a calculating eye. Ginger was not there.
“Have you any cookies left?” asked Alan.
“Yes,” answered Biggles.
“What about sticking one in the dam? That would wash out those blighters on the path and flood everything down below.”
“It would also,” said Biggles sadly, “leave my pilot with nothing but a sheet of mud to land on. I don’t feel like walking home. Never allow your enthusiasm to outrun your intelligence, my lad. We’ll move along for a bit.”
Visibility, while not good, was not as bad as Biggles expected to find it. What was heartening, as time went on and the sun gained power, it improved rapidly. Biggles smiled as he looked at Alan, wondering what his mother would think could she see him, plastered with mud from head to foot. His own condition, he knew, was no better. He took a bar of chocolate from his pocket, broke it in halves and gave half to Alan, who voted it a slice of luck.
“By using your head and thinking in advance you can often arrange for little slices of luck,” answered Biggles dryly. He looked back along the edge of the lake, but the ground was steaming, and visibility did not extend as far as the dam. They walked a little farther and then sat down to wait.
They heard the aircraft before they saw it. In fact, they heard it twice, but on neither occasion was it near them. Ginger should have been at the rendezvous at dawn, and Biggles could imagine him fuming as he groped about in the murk, trying to get a glimpse of the earth but not daring to come too low for fear of colliding with one of the peaks that occurred in the area. However, at last they heard it really low. “He’s getting desperate,” Biggles told his companion, and stood up, Very pistol in hand, ready to signal his position. A moment later the Skud came into view, a grey shadow in the tenuous mist that still floated up from the valleys. Biggles sent a red ball of fire across its nose, and smiled at the speed at which the aircraft turned.
He waved, and had the satisfaction of seeing the machine rock its wings to indicate that he had been observed. The twin engines died, and the Skud began an S turn to lose height in order to come in.
At that moment, now that long visibility was not of paramount importance, the clouds parted; the sun burst through, and the mist went up like a gigantic elevator. As if by magic the air was clear, so that everything within a mile was in plain view. The weather, which had done its best to make the operation difficult, had at last relented. Or so Biggles was justified in thinking.
An instant later a sudden noise of shouting exposed the fallacy of this belief. It seemed that the weather was still determined to be difficult. Bad visibility having failed in its object, good visibility was turned on at the very moment when it could work mischief. It did this, as the shouting made apparent, by revealing them to a dozen or more men who were standing, and may have been standing for some time, at the place where the footpath emerged at the dam. With a brittle, “Look out!” Biggles dived for the nearest cover. Alan went with him.
A glance revealed the Skud now gliding in, its keel nearly touching the water. It was this that gave Biggles the greatest cause for anxiety, for the machine was bound to come to the bank to pick them up, and the risk of it being hit at such close range was all too evident.
The bandits were coming on now, some firing their rifles as they ran, although from such wild shooting there was little to fear.
“I’ll hold these fellows, or make them keep their heads down, while you get aboard,” Biggles told Alan crisply. Without waiting for a reply, although the range was too long for accurate shooting, he emptied his automatic at the bandits. Slipping in another clip he again opened a rapid fire. This had the desired effect of forcing the enemy to seek cover, although it did not, of course, prevent them from returning the fire.
Biggles still had a card to play. He had two bombs left. After adjusting the fuses he ran forward, ducking and twisting, and hurled them into the enemy’s position. Then he turned and raced for the machine, now taxiing in at a speed that threatened to drive it ashore.
As Alan waded out to meet it—for the water near the bank was shallow—it swung round in a smother of creamy foam. Then came two explosions, and in the few seconds’ grace provided by the smoke, and no doubt by the confusion they must have caused, Biggles followed Alan into the aircraft.
The engines were roaring, and the machine accelerating even before he had got the door shut.
If there was any shooting he did not hear it. Ginger afterwards said there was. Anyway, no bullets touched the machine, and by the time Biggles was picking himself up—he was content at first to sit on the floor—the machine was airborne. He looked at Alan and grinned. “What you might call cutting it a bit fine,” he observed.
“A bit too fine,” returned Alan feelingly.
“No matter. We’ve done a good night’s work and you’ll have a tale to tell when you get home,” declared Biggles. Then he laughed. “The only thing is, no one will believe you. I’ll go and tell Ginger to push along. I don’t know about you, but I could do with some breakfast.”
[Back to Contents]
BIGGLES BAITS THE TRAP
“GINGER” Hebblethwaite glanced up as Biggles came into their office after a prolonged absence. “You’ve been a long time,” he complained. “What goes on?”
“Why, getting restless again?” was the bantering reply.
Ginger eyed a small area of blue sky framed by the window. “It struck me as a nice fine day for doing something exciting,” he observed.
“Then let’s go and do it,” returned Biggles, reaching for his cap.
Ginger started. “What are we going to do?” he demanded crisply.
Biggles smiled faintly. “We’re going to do a little experimental work in that ancient pastime known as trailing a red herring.”
Ginger looked pained. “Come clean,” he protested.
“All right—but let’s have a little less film slang,” suggested Biggles. “In plain English we’re going to pinch the priceless pearls of the Rajah of Rantipana—that’s all.”
Ginger blinked. “You’re going to what?”
“You heard what I said.”
“Suppose you give me the gen,” requested Ginger, slipping into R.A.F. jargon.
“All right; here it is, as briefly as I can tell it,” obliged Biggles, selecting a cigarette from his case and tapping it on the back of his hand. “A smart gang of jewel thieves has taken to flying about its business. I told you about that. I also told you that I was only waiting for Algy and Bertie to come back from leave in order to get cracking after them. But it happens that the matter has suddenly become urgent, so I’ve had to get in touch with them to get them on the job. This is the position. You remember the big diamond robbery in Paris last week?”
“Of course.”
“The diamonds were in New York the following day, which can only mean that they were flown there. If we knew the type of machine being used by these crooks our job of catching them would be easy—but we don’t. We haven’t a clue. I’m hoping to get one today, and, with luck, perhaps nail the crooks into the bargain.”
“And just how are you going to do that?”
“I’ll tell you. The New York Police report that one of the men suspected of being connected with the jewel thieves is now in London. If one is here it seems likely that they’re all here. Why have they come here?”
“To do another job?”
“Exactly: and I think I know what it is,” said Biggles seriously. “The Rajah of Rantipana is on his way to this country from India for the Far East Conference. He is due to land at Gatwick Airport this afternoon at two-thirty. He has with him his celebrated pearls. Everyone knows that because the story has appeared in the newspapers.”
“Why publish the story in the newspapers?” grumbled Ginger.
“It was published at my request,” replied Biggles, tapping the ash off his cigarette.
Ginger’s eyes opened wide. Then he nodded slowly. “I get it. You wanted to bring the jewel thieves over here?”
“Just so. The pearls, in a blue morocco case, will be carried by one of the Rajah’s attendants.”
“The case should be chained to his wrist.”
“The Frenchman carrying the diamonds last week tried that and got his hand cut off at the wrist, as a result of which he died,” said Biggles coldly. “The attendant carrying the pearls on this occasion will be a Scotland Yard man. He will allow me to steal them. In other words, I hope to beat the crooks to it. Having got the pearls I shall sprint across the airfield to where you will be sitting in the cockpit of our Mosquito, with the engines ticking over. As I jump in you will take off.”
Ginger blinked. “And what good will that do?”
“The crooks will be on the spot, with everything nicely planned, no doubt; and also, unless I am on the wrong track, with an aircraft waiting. What they won’t be prepared for is my cutting in first. When they’ve recovered from the shock, what will they do?”
“Shoot you, probably,” answered Ginger grimly.
“I shall endeavour to avoid an event so melancholy, you may be sure,” returned Biggles smiling. “They will certainly be very angry and resent my interference. When they’ve grasped the horrid truth they’ll set off after us.”
Ginger nodded slowly. “So we set off, flat out, with the Rajah’s regalia, hotly pursued by the thwarted thugs?”
“That’s the idea.”
“And where do I head for—assuming I get off the ground with the loot?”
“I’ve considered that very carefully,” replied Biggles. “We’ll make for Margon, which is a nice quiet little airfield near Lyons, in France, where we shall repair to the refreshment room and have a snack. There, if my plan works, we shall presently be interrupted by the crooks, who will try to get what they failed to get at Gatwick.”
“How will they know where we’ve gone?”
“They’ll spot the course we
take. In the air I shall slow down to a speed that will nearly enable them to overtake us—but not quite.”
“And what happens when they demand the pearls?”
“I shall pull the string and they’ll find themselves in the bag. We must get them redhanded, so to speak.”
“Aren’t you taking a chance? I mean—how many of these crooks are there?”
“That’s one of the things I want to find out.”
“You’ll look silly if they bump you off and get the pearls,” declared Ginger.
“If I’m bumped off I shall be past caring what I look like,” answered Biggles lightly.
“Are you taking a gun?”
“I am. You’d better take yours, too; I have an idea you may need it. But come on. Let’s get cracking. We haven’t too much time.”
At two-thirty precisely, dead on schedule, the big blue and silver monoplane privately owned by the Rajah of Rantipana, touched its wheels on the broad Gatwick runway, swung round and taxied slowly to the airport buildings where a little group of people, airport officers, government representatives, reporters and cameramen, stood waiting.
Among the latter, a camera hanging on his chest, was Biggles.
For the tenth time his eyes swept round the aerodrome, trying to decide which of the several machines in sight was most likely to be the one in which he was chiefly interested—the crooks’ transport. Some, belonging to air operating companies, he was able to dismiss at once; also the grey-painted police Mosquito, with engines idling and Ginger’s head just visible through the windscreen. Of the others, his interest was focused mainly on three American machines, two of them converted war types, and the other, a racy-looking light transport Volting, a single engine high-wing monoplane, painted dark red with a white flash running aft from the engine cowling. A man, possibly the pilot or a member of the crew, was leaning nonchalantly against the port wing tip. Through the open door a second man could be seen moving inside.
Further inspection of the aircraft was prevented by the arrival of the Rajah and his entourage at the reception gate. The spectators surged nearer and crowded round the central figures—the Rajah himself, his secretary, and a white man who carried a portfolio in one hand and a blue morrocco case in the other. A bouquet was presented. Greetings were exchanged. Cameras went up. Shutters clicked.