Biggles And The Black Peril (06) Read online

  "So!"

  Biggles looked at his questioner. There was no reason why his story of being shipwrecked should not be believed; the very last thing the Russian—for such he took him to be—would suspect was that he himself had brought him to the cove in which the giant flying-boat now rode at anchor. Yet clearly the man was in a quandary; the very fact that he, Biggles, had seen the big machine made it necessary that he should not be allowed to depart and report the matter, either out of simple curiosity or because he was suspicious of its design.

  "So!" said the man again, still deliberating. Then, as if suddenly reaching a decision, " Come with me, my friend," he said.

  Obediently Biggles followed him to a small concrete structure about a hundred yards from the shore, alike in every detail to the one he had recently inspected with Al . He took heart at the sight, for it seemed to show that he was still in England. The bare room was even lighted in the same way as the other had been, with a candle. Two of the men only entered the room with him: the man with the beard, who seemed to be the leader, and another, in an ordinary suit. The other two disappeared; where they went he did not know.

  "Do you mind telling me where I am? " asked Biggles rather curtly. "I'm wet and I'm cold, and I shall have to find somewhere where I can dry my clothes."

  "Yes, yes," replied the other, stroking his beard.

  Biggles could almost read his thoughts; he was wondering if Biggles had seen the flying-boat, and, if so, what reasonable excuse he could give for its presence. Biggles decided to take the bull by the horns; to pretend that he had not seen the craft was asking for trouble. "You're B.E.A. pilots, I suppose," he observed. "Have you made a forced landing? "

  "Ah, you saw my aeroplane?" replied the other quickly.

  "Of course. I couldn't see much of it because it was too dark, but I thought it was an aeroplane on the water. I've always wanted to fly," he went on, warming up to his story. " Do you think you could give me a joyride sometime?" Biggles was now acting up to the ignorance of the general public where aviation is concerned.

  One of the two members of the crew who had disappeared now came to the door and beckoned the leader. Blackbeard, as Biggles mentally styled him, went outside, but returned in a moment or two.

  "About this joyride," he said, looking Biggles straight in the eyes; "you've never been in an aeroplane perhaps? "

  "Never," lied Biggles unblushingly; the position was far too desperate for squeamishness. Now, there is an old saying that "truth will out," and never was it more startlingly demonstrated than at this moment.

  "What is your name, by the way?" asked Blackbeard, with a curious smile.

  "Bigglesworth—James Bigglesworth."

  "I seem to have heard that name before—somewhere. Do you happen to have lost anything?"

  Biggles felt quickly in his pockets, and then suddenly understood the meaning of the other's question.

  "Is this what you're looking for?" asked Blackbeard, suavely, passing a silver cigarettecase. Biggles stared at it as if it fascinated him—as indeed it did. Somehow it must have slipped out of his pocket while he was on the floor of the cabin groping for the matches. He knew that the men had returned to the flying-boat and found it there. Engraved on the front of it were the letters, J.B., and underneath, rather smaller, "R.A.F." If any further proof of his identity was needed, it was there. Inside the case was a photograph of himself in R.A.F. uniform. Smyth, his mechanic, had taken it, and had given him a print, which he kept in his cigarette-case. Blackbeard, of course, had seen it; there was no doubt of that. He glanced up and met his mocking eyes.

  "I'll give you a joyride," said the Russian softly; "a long one." Biggles knew that escape was a matter of now or never, and he acted with the speed of light. He hurled the cigarette-case at the candle and sent it spinning; instantly the room was plunged in darkness. A revolver blazed, a streak of fire in the blackness, towards the place where he had been standing, but he was no longer there. Simultaneously with his shot at the candle, he had dived for the floor in the direction of the door. He grunted as a heavy boot struck the side of his head, but the owner of it tripped and crashed to the ground, dragging one of the others with him. With a terrific uproar in his ears Biggles reached the door and sped like a deer across the open moor that opened up before him. Again the revolver

  barked and he heard the shot whistle over his head. Crouching low, he ran on, not knowing in the least where he was, but determined to put as great a distance as possible between himself and the hut. The action restored life to his chilled limbs, and after running about a quarter of a mile he felt that he was clear. He was just about to slow up when his foot caught in an unseen obstruction and he crashed heavily to earth. For a moment he lay still, almost stunned by the fall, and then, as he scrambled to his feet, a sharp cry of pain escaped his lips. His right ankle refused to support his weight and he sank to the ground again, perspiration breaking out on his face. That he had sprained his ankle, if, indeed, he had not broken it, was certain, and further flight was out of the question. He began to crawl, which was all he could do, looking to right and left for some sort of cover in which to hide. Once or twice he heard his pursuers calling to each other, but they seemed to be some distance away.

  Presently he came to a sunken road, or, rather, track, and to his almost overwhelming relief saw a feeble light shining by the side of it not very far away. Between hopping and crawling, clenching his teeth to stifle the groans of pain that his injured ankle wrung from him, he reached it, and saw that it oozed through a chink in the wall of a sleeperbuilt railway-hut that stood beside a narrow-gauge railway, long disused judging by its overgrown condition, which cut across the sunken road at that point.

  "Hullo, there!" cried a shrill treble voice from inside. "Don't stop to knock." The humour of the fact that there was no door on which to knock might have made Biggles smile in normal circumstances, but at the moment it was lost on him. He dropped on to his knees, and crawling through the

  low doorway found himself staring into the wide-open eyes of a lad of fifteen or sixteen years of age. He was in rags, dirty beyond description, but above a collarless shirt rose a frank, alert, freckled face, surmounted by a mop of tousled red hair. The light came from a small fire of sticks, on which rested a small flat tin containing an unpleasant-looking mixture, impossible to describe, but from which arose to Biggles' starved nostrils an appetizing aroma.

  "Put that fire out, Ginger—quick!" gasped Biggles.

  "What is it—cops after you?" grunted the boy, carefully removing the tin before trampling the fire into extinction. "Say! If you've broken out of jail you can count on me.

  "

  In spite of the pain he was suffering Biggles smiled. "You've been going to the films, I can see," he said. "Just slip to the door and listen, will you, and tell me if you hear anyone."

  He heard the boy cross the hut. "Nix," came his voice from the direction of the door.

  "Good. Now tell me, what county is this?"

  "County? Crumbs, are you so lost that you don't even know what county you're in? You must be lost and no mistake. Fancy not knowing what county you're in."

  "Well, come on; what is it?" asked Biggles shortly.

  "Well—er—you see—er—now you mention it, I'm not quite sure," confessed the lad. " You see," he went on quickly, "it's really all the same to me."

  "What was the last big town you saw?"

  "Newcastle."

  "How far away is that?"

  "Ten miles; fifteen, perhaps; maybe twenty. Let's see, I was there two days ago. Must be twenty miles, I should say."

  "What the dickens are you doing here?"

  "I'm on my way to London."

  "How?"

  "Walking—how do you think? You didn't see my Rolls-Royce standing outside as you came in, did you?"

  "What are you going to London for?"

  "To join the Royal Air Force. If they won't have me, I'm going to Heath Row to watch the air-liners. What are you do
ing here, and how did you get that dud foot? I thought I heard shots just now—was that anything to do with you?"

  "It certainly was."

  "Crikey, don't tell me some gang has put you on the spot!"

  "They have, or something very much like it. There's a bunch of foreigners on my trail; if they find me, that'll be the end of it."

  "Hey, that's fine. This is the first adventure I've struck since I left Smettleworth."

  "Smettleworth! Where's that?"

  "I don't know except that it's the place where I come from. My father's a miner; he fetched me a clip on the ear when I told him I was going to be a pilot, so I hopped it."

  "I see. Well, go and have another listen and then let's sample that fry you've got in the pan."

  "I don't think it's quite done."

  "What is it?"

  "Mixed allsorts—bits I scrounged on the way; bread, dripping, potato, turnip, an egg—

  and things like that." "Who gave you the egg?"

  "No one—I—er—found it."

  "In somebody's hen-house, eh?"

  "Never mind that. If you're squeamish I'm not asking you to eat, am I?"

  "How do we eat it?"

  "I've got a fork and a spoon and a pocket-knife; you can have which you like. I can manage without any of 'em, if it comes to that."

  While they had been talking Biggles had taken off his boot and felt his ankle; with the restraining leather removed it was beginning to swell, quickly. "Just make sure there's nobody about, will you," he said, "while I tie up my ankle. I've sprained it."

  "All O.K.," said the boy a moment later, after a thorough survey.

  "Righto. Then I think you might light the fire again so that I can see what I'm doing. Find some grass anything'll do—to bung up those chinks where the light gets through. Have you got plenty of sticks?"

  "There's a fence outside which should last us; this used to be a level-crossing."

  "Fine. Then go and get a good supply, will you? I shall have to try and get my things dry; I'm wet through." He bound up his foot with his handkerchief and a part of his shirt, and after a frugal but tasty meal felt considerably better. "Now, Ginger," he said, "I want you to help me."

  "All right, but not so much of the Ginger; my name's Habblethwaite."

  "Let's stick to Ginger; it's shorter," suggested Biggles. "O.K. with me," agreed the boy. " What's your name, by the way?"

  "Bigglesworth."

  Ginger started violently. "Bigglesworth! Not the war-pilot, by any chance?"

  "Well, I was in the war," confessed Biggles.

  "Well, strike me pink!" gasped Ginger. "Biggles in the flesh! This is my lucky day and no mistake; I know all about you, so you needn't tell me any more."

  "Oh, and how do you know that?"

  "Read about you, of course. You've got a pal named Algy something or other, haven't you? Where's he?"

  "I left him with my aeroplane, and I'm afraid he must be getting pretty worried by this time—but never mind that now. This is serious, Ginger; understand that. I meant it when I told you that a gang of crooks are after me. They caught me, but I got away, but this sprained ankle is going to make things awkward. I expect they are still looking for me. You can help me, but you'll have to use your head."

  "O.K., chief; just tell me what you want me to do." "Is there a town or village anywhere handy?" "There's a fair-sized village about six miles away; I came through it on my way. I don't know the name of it,

  but I'll soon find out."

  "That doesn't matter; what I want you to do is this." Biggles took out his notebook, removed several water-soaked one-pound notes, and held them by the fire to dry. "Take this money," he went on, "and find a garage. Get the driver to drive you here as fast as he can to pick me up; you'll probably have to pay him in advance." Ginger nodded. "I get you," he said.

  "Right! Then that's that. I'll get the driver to take me back to the village, and then all I shall have to do is to send a telegram to Algy Lacey at Croydon Airport. He'll fly up and fetch me."

  "D'you want me to start right away?"

  "I'd like you to. You'll find everything shut, of course, at this time of night, but knock up the first garage you

  come to. If the fellow argues, tell him that there has been an accident and that I'll pay him well for his trouble. Let him see you have money with you. If you can manage to do that, maybe I can give you a lift to London in my machine." Ginger's eyes sparkled and he drew a deep breath. "I'll be back," he said emphatically, picking up his cap. He thrust the notes deep into his pocket and crossed to the door. "I'll be seeing you," he said, and stepped out into the night. For a moment he paused to listen, but hearing nothing set off at a brisk pace along the track. He had gone about half a mile when the beam of a flashlight cut through the darkness from a spot not six yards away; two figures loomed menacingly.

  "Why, it's a kid," said one in tones of disgust.

  "Say, what's the big idea?" demanded Ginger belligerently; "you can't go about making people jump that way." He could just make out the silhouette of a car standing close against the hedge.

  "Where have you come from?" asked one of the men gruffly. Ginger jerked his thumb down the lane. "There's only one road as far as I can see."

  "You keep a civil tongue in your head, you saucy young pup. Did you see anyone along there?"

  "No, worse luck. I was hoping to get a lift. Which way are you going?"

  "Mind your own business. We're looking for a fellow; if you happen to see anyone along the road let out a yell, and I'll give you half a crown."

  "O.K.," replied Ginger briskly. "If I see him I'll let you know. So long." As soon as he was out of earshot he paused to listen. Despite his casual answers, his heart was beating violently,

  for he had no doubt as to the reason for the men's presence. They were watching for Biggles; should he return and warn him? No, he decided; he might defeat his own object by leading them to his hiding-place. He thought swiftly, then hurried on his way. A quarter of a mile farther on he stopped, and cupping his hands round his mouth let out a piercing yell. He grinned as he heard the engine of the car start up, and climbed up the bank to the edge of the moor. "This way!" he yelled. "Here he is," and crouching low ran out into the darkness. He waited until he heard the car stop, and heavy footsteps thumping in his tracks, and then he gave tongue again. "Make haste; he's running!" he shouted, and then, silently, and with the stealth of an Indian, began to circle back towards the car. When he reached it he could hear the men muttering in low tones some little distance away, evidently at a loss. He groped in his trousers pocket, produced a jack-knife, which he opened, and then felt along the car until his hand reached a tyre. He placed the point of the knife on it and drove it in with all his strength. The tyre was harder than he expected it to be; but the point went home; to his surprise it made no noise. He could hear the men returning, so he jerked out the knife, and the fierce hiss of escaping air that accompanied the movement threw him into a panic, for he knew that the men could not have failed to hear it. He heard one of them curse as they started to run back.

  Ginger did not wait. With the knife still clasped in his hand he sped down the road like a hare with hounds on its trail, nor did he pause until he was absolutely winded. Then he replaced the knife in his pocket and set off at a steadier pace towards the now visible lights of the sleeping village. A policeman looked at him suspiciously as he struck the first row of houses, and he hesitated, turning

  over in his mind the advisability of asking the constable to come back with him in the car in case of trouble; but Biggles, he reflected, had said nothing about bringing a policeman, so he dismissed the idea and passed on. He came upon a garage almost at once, easily recognised by a petrol-pump. The place was closed and in darkness, so without the slightest hesitation he beat upon the door with his fist.

  A bedroom window was flung open and a man's head appeared. "What is it?" he asked.

  "Have you got a car on hire?" said Ginger.
r />   "Not at this time of night," was the short reply. "Never mind the time of night; have you got a car?"

  "I have; who wants it?"

  "I do."

  "Want me to drive you back to your mansion, eh?" "My money is as good as anybody else's, isn't it?" "How much have you got?"

  "What's that got to do with you? How much do you charge to drive six miles?"

  "Cost you two pounds at this time of night."

  "That's O.K. Make it snappy and I'll give you an extra ten bob."

  "What's going on?" asked the man suspiciously, when, a quarter of an hour later, he appeared at the door.

  "A gentleman's had an accident down the road and wants you to fetch him."

  "Why didn't you say so before; where's that money?" "Here you are." The man took the two pounds that Ginger gave him, and then dragged back the door of the garage to reappear a moment later with an ancient Ford. "Get in," he said. "Which way?"

  "Straight ahead," replied Ginger. "Keep going and I'll guide you." In twenty minutes they had reached the entrance of the sunken road. "Go slow now," Ginger warned the driver, "but if anyone shoots at us, step on it."

  "Eh! What's that? Did you say shoot?"

  "Aye. I thought I'd better warn you. If anyone tries to stop us go right ahead."

  "Where do you think we are, in Mexico?" scoffed the driver. But Ginger wasn't listening; he was looking for the damaged car, but it had gone. "Whoa!

  " he cried, when they reached the disused level-crossing. "Here we are." He sprang down as the car pulled up and darted towards the hut. "Hi, Biggles, we're here !" he cried triumphantly.

  With a curious prickling sensation of the skin he entered the hut and struck a match. It was empty. For a moment he could not believe it. "Biggles," he whispered foolishly, " where are you?" He ran outside. "Biggles!" he cried loudly. "Hi, it's me, Ginger !" There was no reply. He stared at the driver of the car, white-faced.