Biggles And The Black Peril (06) Read online

  A hail rang out; it was answered instantly from the hut, and a light began to jerk its way towards the beach.

  "Don't move," whispered Biggles. "The fellow in the hut is coming down to meet them. Now we know what that switch was for. Hark!" A sound of low voices reached them from the direction of the hut. "There's more than one of them—sounds as if there may be two," he whispered. "Keep still; this is interesting." Two figures loomed up, one carrying an electric lantern, and passed them at a distance of not more than ten yards. Presently a sound of greetings being exchanged came from the beach.

  "It's a good thing our aircraft is out of sight round

  the corner," muttered Biggles, "or that would have put the lid on it."

  "What's going on, do you think?" whispered Algy. "Smuggling?"

  "Looks like it—on a big scale too. That machine is a foreigner; I can't just make her out. There's something fishy here and no mistake; I've never even seen a picture of such a machine, so where it has come from goodness alone knows—S-s-h." Voices, speaking in a foreign language, were approaching, this time from the direction of the water. The faint light in the cockpit disappeared, as if the electrical equipment for illuminating the instrument-board had been switched off, and in a moment or two five figures, walking in single file, loomed up in the night. They disappeared in the direction of the hut and the light reappeared at the window.

  "Listen, laddie," whispered Biggles. "We've got to see more of this. I'm going down to get a closer view of that machine; we may never get such a chance again. I'll find out its nationality, anyway. You creep up towards the hut and see if you can learn anything, but for the love of Mike don't be seen. I shan't come back here; I'll make for the aircraft—

  you do the same." He crawled out of the trench and disappeared into the darkness. Algy lay still for a few minutes, listening, and then began to creep stealthily towards the hut. It was not difficult to approach unseen, for the night was dark, and the grass-covered sand beneath his feet deadened the sound of his footsteps. At a distance of about ten yards he again stopped to listen. He could hear voices distinctly, but they were speaking in a language he did not understand, so the conversation conveyed nothing to him. Dare he risk a peep through the window? It was taking a big

  risk, and he knew it, for if any one of the five occupants happened to be looking in that direction he could hardly fail to see him. He decided to take the risk; one glance at the mysterious voyagers might prove invaluable. Like an Indian he wormed his way to the dark side of the hut and then crept across to the base of the concrete wall. So far so good. Crouching low, he rounded the corner, and crept along until he was immediately below the square of light. Then slowly and with infinite care he began to rise. The voices sounded desperately close, and in spite of his efforts to still it his heart pounded violently; it was a form of thrill that he had never before experienced. Inch by inch his head rose towards the corner of the light; then it drew level, and he took in the scene at a single glance.

  The five men were in the room. One, in a heavy leather flying coat, was holding up a map, which Algy recognized at once as Europe, on the opposite wall; the others were looking closely at it while he spoke. Two of them, obviously the crew of the flying-boat, wore sheepskin thigh-boots and thick woollen sweaters. The other two, evidently the men who had come overland, wore ordinary lounge suits and overcoats. One was a thin, emaciated-looking fellow with a large nose, like the beak of a bird of prey; the other was inclined to be stout, had a straw-coloured moustache and wore a bowler hat. There was nothing outstanding about him; he was of a type that could be seen at any place any time of the day.

  The man in the leather coat was obviously the leader, for the others were listening attentively and respectfully as he tapped upon the map with a pencil to emphasize his words. As Algy watched, he placed the point of the pencil on a spot which he had no difficulty in

  recognizing as the Norfolk coast; probably the very spot on which they now stood. Then, with a swift movement, he swept the pencil across the North Sea to a spot on the eastern side of the Baltic. Several other lines had been drawn on the map from the same spot to various points on the east coast of England, but before Algy could memorize them the man, of whose face Algy could see nothing except the point of a black beard, took down the map and began to fold it up. They all turned towards the middle of the room and Algy sank down silently.

  Not until he was on his hands and knees did he realize how great had been the strain of his surreptitious peep, for he was trembling, and his heart seemed to be up in his throat. He crept like a wraith to the cover of a sand-dune as the door creaked and lay still as death while the light went out and the voices faded away into the night. For perhaps twenty minutes he remained thus, and then, deciding that the coast was clear, began to feel his way cautiously in the direction of the amphibian. He was about half way when the engines of the great flying-boat were started up; they swelled into a deep, vibrating hum that receded swiftly into the distance. "So she's gone off again," he mused, as he continued on his way. "I wonder if those other two chaps have gone with her." He reached the amphibian and gave a low whistle. There was no reply, so deciding that Biggles had not yet returned he went aboard and made himself comfortable in the cabin. Half an hour passed slowly and he began to get anxious; at the end of an hour he was definitely alarmed. He jumped down on to the beach and listened; not a sound broke the deathly silence. No lights showed in the direction of the hut.

  "Biggles!" he called, not too loudly.

  There was no reply.

  "Biggles!" he called again, raising his voice.

  Still there was no reply.

  Something like panic seized him, and casting discretion to the winds, "Biggles!" he yelled at the top of his voice.

  Silence answered him.

  An icy hand seemed to clutch his heart, for he knew that the cry must have been heard by anyone within half a mile. He ran to the top of the nearest sand-dune and stood staring into the darkness towards the creek. The moon appeared suddenly from behind a cloudbank and flooded the scene with silvery radiance. Nothing moved. Not a sound broke the silence of the night. "Biggles! Hi, Biggles!" he yelled again. There was no answer. Filled with a nameless horror, he began to run towards the beach where the strange aeroplane had been, searching to right and left as he ran. He found footmarks in the sand by the water's edge, but nothing more. For an hour he hunted, looking for what he hoped he would not find, the dead or unconscious body of his friend. At last, weary and unnerved, he sat down on a dune overlooking the sea. "What could have happened?" he asked himself a hundred times. Could Biggles have fallen into one of the mud swamps and been drowned? Could he have entered the water to examine the aircraft and been carried away by the receding tide? He did not know. Grey dawn came and found him still alone on the edge of the salt marsh. Before him stretched the sea, cold and deserted. Behind lay the waste of barren land, a vast featureless expanse soul-destroying in its utter solitude. At one place only on the far horizon was

  there a sign of man's presence; the dilapidated arm of an ancient windmill flung a gaunt finger skyward. The only sound was the plaintive cry of the seabirds. He rose wearily to his feet, suddenly aware that he was very cold, and made his way to the hut, but it was precisely as they had found it the preceding day. "Well, no use staying here," he muttered bitterly. "I might as well take the machine back home." He started the engine, climbed into his seat and took off; yet he could not tear himself away from the place. Somewhere there, either in the water, or—he grew cold at the thought—buried under the mud, was Biggles. For half an hour he cruised to and fro, crossing and recrossing his track a hundred times, but there was no sign of the man who was tied to him by bonds of friendship that only years of peril could forge. Suddenly making up his mind, he swung the machine round, and with a lump in his throat headed south.

  CHAPTER H

  GINGER TAKES A HAND

  WHEN Biggles left Algy in order to make a closer inspection of
the mysterious flyingboat, he had little idea of what he was literally walking into. Had the giant aeroplane been a British machine, he would have put the whole thing down to a secret operation being carried out by the Air Ministry, possibly with the co-operation of the Navy, but quite apart from the aeroplane the fact that the crew were foreigners discountenanced this theory at once. That the nocturnal visitors were engaged in some nefarious scheme was obvious, and he considered it his duty to find out, if possible, just what it was. If it was smuggling, then it was being done on a very large scale, but if that was the case why had not the crew brought the contraband ashore, for there could be no object in the visit unless a consignment of illicit cargo was to be unloaded. The men who had gone up to the hut were empty-handed, he was sure of that, and if the size of the machine was any indication its pay-load was in the order of two or three tons—certainly far more than the meagre crew could unload before dawn.

  It was not until he was within a cable's length of the machine that he fully realized how huge it was, and crouching low on the ground he examined it with a professional eye. It was a metal flying-boat of the high-wing monoplane type, painted black. Fared into the leading edge of the cantilever wings were eight engines,

  fitted with gleaming metal propellers. The exhaust manifolds were gathered into two large exhaust pipes, one on each side of the hull, that thickened strangely towards the end; and he guessed why the engines made their curious muffled roar; they were silenced. There was no opening in the all-enclosed cockpit, but a door in the huge black hull stood open, and this he assumed gave access to the pilot's seat. Not a sound came from the machine, so he approached still closer; it looked as if the entire crew had gone ashore. They would hardly expect visitors, so there was no reason why anyone should stay aboard, he reasoned, glancing over his shoulder at the spark of light that marked the position of the hut. If they were still there, he might have time to take a peep inside. Such a step would be taking a chance, but it was worth it, he decided. Even if they returned and caught him there, what could they do? As a British subject and a retired officer, he would be quite within his rights in making inquiries.

  Having made up his mind, he walked quickly across the narrow strip of sand, waded into two feet or so of water, and stepped through the open door into the hull. It was pitch-dark inside, so he groped quickly for his matches, and struck one, shielding the flame with his hands.

  The cabin in which he found himself was empty, but it was only a small one, and he made for the door in the after end. It opened easily and he caught his breath at the sight that met his gaze. For a distance of about twenty feet, set on either side of a narrow gangway, were rows of gleaming steel rods. He knew what they were at once, for he had seen the bomb-racks of a big bomber before, but in this case they were on a scale larger than he had ever imagined. He realized with a shock that the

  machine was no smuggler, but a bomber, a foreign bomber of huge dimensions. Another door, a small oval one, faced him at the other end of the gangway. He hurried towards it and turned the handle just as his match went out. He stepped across the threshold and took out another match, but at that moment either on account of his weight or because of some movement of the tide, the boat gave a sudden list, and he clutched at the side of the hull to save himself from falling. The box of matches flew out of his hand and rattled across the metal floor. With a muttered exclamation of annoyance he dropped on to his knees, and groped for them; as he did so he heard the door swing to with a sharp click. He at once abandoned the matches and sprang back to the door, running his hand swiftly over the smooth metal for the catch. There appeared to be none, or if there was he could not find it. Presently, to his horror, he realized that in the darkness he had lost his sense of direction, and was by no means sure if the wall over which he was running his hands was the one that held' the door.

  He groped on the floor again for the matches, and grunted with satisfaction as his hand struck the elusive box. He took out a match, and was actually holding it in a position to strike when the sound of voices came faintly from the other side of the partition. For a moment he stood still, thinking hard; to leave the boat without being seen was now obviously impossible. Should he open the door and declare his presence, or remain where he was in the hope of the crew returning to the hut? Something warned him that discovery in his present position was likely to have unpleasant consequences, but before he could make up his mind a sudden vibration told him that the engines had been started. There was a harsh

  word of command; the sound of a door being slammed was drowned in the roar of the engines as the throttle was opened, and the machine began to surge through the water.

  "It looks as if I'm staying here," he told himself grimly. No good purpose could be served by revealing himself now, so he squatted on the floor and resigned himself to the inevitable. There was just a chance that when the machine reached its destination, wherever that might be, it would be moored without an examination of the aft cabin being made, in which case he might find an opportunity to slip away unobserved.

  The machine was in the air now, but he had no idea of the direction in which it was heading; it might have been north, or it might be south, for all he knew, and he had no possible means of ascertaining. Had there been a window in the hull it would have been different, but there was not, so all he could do was to sit on the floor and hope for the best. Unusual and unpleasant thoughts began to pass through his mind. Suppose the machine crashed?

  "I must have been a blithering idiot to get myself into this mess," he mused. How long he sat in the darkness he did not know, but it seemed like hours, and it was with intense satisfaction that at last he heard the engines being throttled back and knew by the angle of the floor that they were gliding down. "I wonder where we are now?" he muttered. Without knowing how long he had been in the air, or the speed of the machine, it was impossible to make even the wildest guess as to how far he had travelled, but he knew he might have arrived at almost any point in. Europe. He breathed a sigh of relief as the keel kissed the water

  with a powerful s-s-swish, and he rose to his feet as the engines were switched off. Again the sound of voices came from the other side of the partition. A door slammed and there was silence. He waited for a few minutes, and then struck a match, shielding the flame with his coat, blowing it out again as soon as his eyes found the doorlatch, a tiny knob let into the metal, which accounted for his being unable to find it. Hardly daring to breathe, he opened the door an inch and placed his ear to the opening. Not a sound came from the darkness. Leaving the door open behind him he felt his way along the gangway. The door at the far end was closed, but he found the catch and opened it very gently. The forward cabin was also in darkness, but the hull door through which he had entered was open, so with every nerve tense he crept to the door and peeped out. After the stygian darkness of his recent prison, the starlit world seemed as light as day, and he drank in the fresh air in great gulps.

  The machine had come to rest about fifty yards from the shore at just such another place as his point of embarkation, except that at a little distance to right and left towered some fairly high cliffs; but the shore immediately opposite was low, and he could hear the waves lapping on the beach. A tiny spark of light glowed just beyond it, and he could just make out the outlines of a small boat hauled up on the sand.

  "This is where I step off," he muttered, as he lowered himself into the water. To his disgust he could not touch bottom, but there was no help for it, and letting go his hold he struck out in a long but quiet breast-stroke for the shore, choosing a diagonal course in order to avoid meeting the crew of the flying-boat, should they return before he reached the beach. The water was cold, and

  he quickened his stroke, but he seemed to make little progress, and in spite of his efforts he felt a current carrying him towards the spot where the boat lay. For a few minutes he fought against it, but he felt his strength going, and turning over in his back he allowed himself to be carried towards the bea
ch. He had no desire to meet the pilot who had unknowingly given him a lift, but that was preferable to being drowned. He was nearly spent when his feet touched the bottom, and gasping like a stranded fish he dragged himself ashore. As he waded through the last few yards of water, the moon floated out from behind a cloud and flooded the beach with radiance. There was a sudden shout from the direction of the light on the shore, and the sound of running footsteps, but he heeded them not, for he was far too exhausted. He could not have run a yard if his life had depended on the effort; there are limits to human endurance, so he sank down to recover his breath as quickly as he could.

  From a kneeling position he saw four figures running across the soft sand towards him, and he was still panting and spitting out mouthfuls of sea-water when a hand fell on his shoulder and lifted him to his feet. An idea struck him and he played up to it, staggering and clutching at the man who had lifted him, as if to save himself from falling; as a matter of fact the action was not altogether feigned.

  "What do you do here?" said a harsh voice.

  Biggles looked at the speaker, wringing the water out of his hair as he did so, and saw a hard, military face with piercing eyes set above a well-cut nose. A dark moustache adorned the upper lip, and a well-trimmed pointed beard concealed the chin. The man wore a heavy leather coat over a kind of dark uniform.

  "What do you do here?" said the man again, sharply.

  "Where am I ? " gasped Biggles feebly.

  "What do you do here, eh?" said the man yet again, glancing at his three companions in turn.

  "Do here? " said Biggles weakly. "What do you usually do when you swim ashore after being shipwrecked? I got carried out to sea in my boat, in the storm, this afternoon. She turned over and I hung on to her, but when I saw the coast I let go and swam for it; she's out there somewhere." He indicated the expanse of ocean vaguely with a wave of his hand.