Biggles Hunts Big Game

by W E Johns

  “White!” he called impatiently. “You can’t get away. You might as well pack up.”

  A voice answered from somewhere quite near, answered in a harsh whisper pregnant with urgency and fear. “Is that you, Bigglesworth?” it said.

  “Yes, it’s me,” answered Biggles. “I want you.”

  “Listen,” came the voice again. “I’ll give you ten thousand pounds to get me out of this.”

  “You’re talking to the wrong man,” returned Biggles curtly. “Come on.”

  “Fifty thousand.”

  “You’re wasting your time. Are you coming out or do I have to fetch you?”

  The answer was a stream of blasphemous abuse.

  There was a sudden swishing of the bamboos, the sound receding.

  Biggles started in pursuit, but before he had taken half a dozen paces he was brought to a halt by a sudden commotion immediately in front of him. Above a crashing and threshing of undergrowth rose a scream of such mortal terror that a prickly sensation ran down his spine. Hastening forward, quickly but cautiously, he raised his gun, half expecting a trick; but this fear was cast aside when, after taking a few more paces he was confronted by a spectacle so appalling that for a moment he could only stand as if petrified with horror.

  White was rolling about on the ground apparently trying to tear to pieces with his hands a fat, loathsome puff-adder that had fastened its fangs in the calf of his leg. Scream after scream cracked from his lips as he threw himself this way and that, striving to tear the writhing creature from him. Once he managed to break its hold, but the respite was short-lived, for it fastened again to his hand.

  There was nothing Biggles could do, for to shoot the snake in the only vital place, the head, without hitting the man, was practically impossible. To use his hands was to invite the same fate as White. Still, he did what he could. Snatching up a length of dead bamboo he went as close as he dare, and waiting for a chance brought it down with a vicious swipe across the snake’s body. The blow broke its back and caused it to release its hold. He struck it again and again until its movements were sluggish and then blew its head to pieces with a close shot. By this time White was lying on his back moaning feebly.

  The others, who had heard the commotion, ran up. A glance was enough to tell them what had happened.

  “Watch where you’re walking,” warned Biggles crisply. “There may be more snakes about. White’s had it. He hasn’t a chance. Let’s get him out of this.”

  Lifting the stricken man between them, not without difficulty for he was a dead weight, they carried him to the open space in front of the power-house, where Major Grattan, with experience of such accidents, did everything possible. Having sent a man to the lodge for permanganate of potash, with scant ceremony he cut away White’s clothing to expose the fang marks, and then laid open the flesh with his knife until the blood ran. With the help of the others he dragged him to his feet and tried to keep him moving. But it was no use. White never spoke again. By the time the runner had returned from the lodge with the permanganate he had breathed his last.

  “Well, that’s how it goes,” observed Biggles philosophically. He noticed that the Major was staring at White’s face with an extraordinary expression on his own. “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

  The Major pointed at the dead man. “What did you say he called himself?”

  “White.”

  “In Egypt he is known as Kravas—an Armenian,” stated the Major. “I know him well by sight. He has the reputation of being one of the wealthiest men in the Middle East. He keeps up a magnificent place in Cairo.”

  Biggles smiled faintly. “Now you know how he made his money,” he observed drily. “I’ll leave you to dispose of the body. It’s time I pushed along back to Cairo to see what’s happening there. No doubt you’ll be coming back yourself presently. I’ll see you then. So-long.”

  * * * * *

  It had turned eleven o’clock that night when the Pacemaker which they had used for the journey, touched its wheels on the dusty Egyptian airfield.

  Hurrying to the Stellar office they discovered two policemen on duty. Biggles showed his pass. Inside they found Algy, Air Commodore Raymond, and a number of officials, some busy packing the paper contents of files and drawers into bags, and others examining with interest a number of trophies that lay about the floor, having been cut open to reveal their contents.

  Their arrival, they learned, was expected, for Major Grattan had been in radio communication with his headquarters to make a preliminary report of what had happened at Kudinga. He had said that Biggles and his party were on their way to Cairo.

  “How’s everything at this end?” asked Biggles, after greetings had been exchanged.

  “Buttoned up to the last button,” answered the Air Commodore with a satisfaction he made no attempt to conceal. “You certainly threw the monkey wrench into this set of gears. What puzzles me is how you hit on the right track straight away.”

  Biggles shrugged. “It wasn’t as difficult as it may sound. After all, aviation is still a young business and we old hands know most of the people in it. By making a list of possibles, and then striking out those that I knew from personal association must be on the level, I wasn’t faced with much ground to cover.”

  The Air Commodore nodded. “Yes, I can see that angle. Well, you’ll be glad to know that we’ve made a clean job. As soon as I heard Algy Lacey’s story I decided to take action right away. I don’t mind admitting that I was a bit worried about you charging into the lion’s den with your usual disregard for danger, and my first move was to take steps to get you out of it. I asked the A.O.C. Middle East to co-operate with the local police and get cracking.”

  “I guessed as much,” murmured Biggles lighting a cigarette. “The relief party couldn’t have arrived at a better moment. Things were getting decidedly awkkward when we heard the old familiar drone of the Bombays. By the way, Ginger has some samples of he stuff they were printing at Kudinga, hot off the press. But tell me, what’s happened here?”

  “I made contact with the Continental police with he result that every agency, booking office and taxiderrnist distributing centre was raided simultaneously. We found some interesting staff at this so-called pilots’ club at Croydon. We’ve got Black. We soon located the machines, and the company’s pilots, including Ivan, were arrested as they landed. In fact, I don’t see how anyone, including the small fry, can slip through the net. Once Major Grattan gave us the name of the Big Fish, Kravas, over the radio, the rest was easy. We went up to his palatial residence and had a look at things, taking Louis, the booking clerk here, with us. He lost his nerve completely and decided to turn King’s Evidence. It seems that he’s a nephew of Kravas and knows all the ins and outs. He showed us his uncle’s secret depository. In it we found, amongst other hings, a complete filing system of everyone employed by him, not only in the Stellar concern, but in the other nasty, if less spectacular, rackets that he runs. No wonder the man was a millionaire. But I mustn’t stand talking now. I’ve got a lot of clearing up to do and it’s going to take time.”

  “In that case you won’t be needing us again for a bit? “

  “I shall want your report as soon as you can let me have it, and later on, your evidence.”

  “I’ll see to it,” promised Biggles. “Meanwhile since we are here, and it’s winter at home, we might as well make the best of the sunshine for a day or two.”

  “That’s okay with me,” consented the Air Commodore.

  “Definitely okay with me, too. Time I got the old skin cleaned up a bit,” declared Bertie, polishing his monocle briskly.

  “Suits me,” murmured Ginger.

  “And me,” agreed Algy.

  “I’m not grousing,” averred Tug.

  Biggles smiled. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  THE END

 

 

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