Biggles and the Black Peril Read online

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1 Forced Down

  Chapter 2 Ginger Takes A Hand

  Chapter 3 A Reconnaissance Flight

  Chapter 4 In The Enemy Camp

  Chapter 5 Rescue

  Chapter 6 Council Of War

  Chapter 7 Warned Out

  Chapter 8 A Chapter of Adventures

  Chapter 9 Ginger Strikes

  Chapter 10 Smyth Explains

  Chapter 11 What Happened to Algy

  Chapter 12 Trailed

  Chapter 13 Fog

  Chapter 14 Blackbeard Speaks

  Chapter 15 Biggles Explains

  Chapter 16 A One-Sided Fight

  Chapter 17 The Raiders' Fate

  'There's a telegram for you, Lacey,' called Benton, a club instructor, who came out of the office as he passed.

  'Telegram for me?' cried Algy in amazement. 'Who on earth—'He took the buff envelope and tore it open impatiently. It was addressed simply, Algy Lacey, Brooklands Aerodrome.

  'Come at once, bring machine, Biggles captured. Waiting for you at Cramlington Aerodrome.

  Ginger.'

  Captain W. E. Johns was born in Hertfordshire in 1893. He flew with the Royal Flying Corps in the First World War and made a daring escape from a German prison camp in 1918. Between the wars he edited Flying and Popular Flying and became a writer for the Ministry of Defence. The first Biggles story, Biggles the Camels are Coming was published in 1932, and W. E. Johns went on to write a staggering 102 Biggles titles before his death in 1968.

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  BIGGLES BOOKS

  PUBLISHED IN THIS EDITION

  FIRST WORLD WAR:

  Biggles Learns to Fly

  Biggles Flies East

  Biggles the Camels are Coming

  Biggles of the Fighter Squadron

  Biggles in France

  Biggles and the Rescue Flight

  BETWEEN THE WARS:

  Biggles and the Cruise of the Condor

  Biggles and Co.

  Biggles Flies West

  Biggles Goes to War

  Biggles and the Black Peril

  Biggles in Spain

  SECOND WORLD WAR:

  Biggles Defies the Swastika

  Biggles Delivers the Goods

  Biggles Defends the Desert

  Biggles Fails to Return

  BIGGLES

  and the

  BLACK PERIL

  CAPTAIN W.E. JOHNS

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ISBN 978-1-4090-4522-9

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Red Fox would like to express their grateful thanks

  for help given in the preparation of these editions to Jennifer Schofield,

  author of By Jove, Biggles, Linda Shaughnessy of A. P. Watt Ltd

  and especially to the late John Trendler.

  BIGGLES AND THE BLACK PERIL

  A RED FOX BOOK 0 09 997760 5

  First published in Great Britain by John Hamilton, 1935

  This Red Fox edition published 2004

  1 3 5 7 9 1 0 8 6 4 2

  Copyright ©WE Johns (Publications) Ltd, 1935

  The right of W E Johns to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  Papers used by Random House Children's Books are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

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  THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-4090-4522-9

  Version 1.0

  Chapter 1

  Forced Down

  The northern horizon, which for some time had been growing more and more indistinct, finally disappeared, and the dull, greeny-black sea merged into the grey canopy of the sky. Biggles leaned out of the cockpit of his Vandal amphibian* aeroplane, pushed up his goggles, and peered ahead anxiously. For a full minute he stared, and a frown creased his forehead as he looked back at Algy Lacey, sitting in the second pilot's seat beside him.

  * A marine aircraft, with a boat-shaped hull for landing on water, which was also fitted with retractable wheels for use on land.

  'I don't like it!' he shouted above the roar of the engine. 'That stuff'11 start coming down presently.' He jerked his head at the forbidding cloud-mass above.

  Algy indicated that he had heard by a grimace of annoyance. 'Typical English weather,' he reflected. The sun had been shining from a cloudless, blue, autumn sky when Biggles had rung him up that morning to suggest a joy-ride, a proposal to which he had readily agreed. They had travelled by road to Brook-lands Aerodrome, where they had parked the amphibian after their return from South America**, and after a short discussion as to the most desirable route, they had left the ground shortly after two o'clock.

  ** See Biggles Flies Again.

  They had picked up the Thames, followed it as far as the estuary, and then turning north continued up the east coast. It had been their intention to find a suitable cove in which to land if the water was smooth enough, and have a picnic tea from a hamper which reposed in the cabin; alternatively, if the water was choppy, they would turn inland to one of the many north country aerodromes, and land on terra firma, leaving the ground in time to get back to Brooklands by dusk, which would be about six o'clock. The change in the weather had first been apparent as they were passing Felixstowe, but Biggles had held on to his course hoping it would improve. On the contrary it had grown steadily worse, until now, with the Wash behind them and the Lincolnshire coast two thousand feet below their keel, it had become definitely forbidding.

  A wraith of white mist enveloped the machine with a clammy embrace, and blotted out the landscape. The noise of the engine faded suddenly as Biggles throttled back to lose height, and then sprang to life again as they sank through the vapour and the ground once more appeared below.

  'Going back!' he yelled, and suiting the action to the word, swung the machine round and began to retrace his course. His frown deepened as he peered through the windscreen. From east to west, straight across their path, lay a dark, uniform, indigo
belt that could only mean rain, and heavy rain at that. Land and sea, at a distance of a mile or two, were swallowed up in gloom. Then, as so often happens in such conditions, the moisture-laden sky above began to close down on them. Twice within five minutes the machine was enveloped in opaque mist, so thick that the wing tips were lost in it, and each time the pilot was compelled to lose height in order to keep the ground in sight. He jerked the throttle wide open, and the bellow of the engine increased in volume as it jumped from cruising to maximum speed; the revolution counter needle vibrated, and crept upwards, and the air speed indicator leapt from ninety miles an hour to a hundred and ten.

  They were now recrossing the Wash, and he touched his right rudder slightly in order to strike the coast, their only landmark, as quickly as possible; they were down to five hundred feet when it loomed dimly ahead. At the same moment a sharp spatter of rain struck them; it formed in curious little globules on the doped planes*, tiny beads of moisture that danced towards the trailing edge and then disappeared into space. Visibility quickly grew worse until he could only just see the ground from a hundred feet; so thick was it that at times it was difficult to tell whether land or sea lay below. He pushed his stick** forward a trifle, staring over the side, and saw that they were passing over a little natural creek. The water in it was smooth, for the storm had not yet had time to beat up a big sea, and he made up his mind with the promptness of long experience. The roar of the engine ceased abruptly; the Vandal tilted in a swift 'S' turn, sideslipped, flattened out, and cut a creamy wake across the smooth water of the creek.

  * On aircraft where the wings were covered in fabric material, the fabric was coated in a chemical solution called dope to make them waterproof, taut and airproof.

  ** Slang for control column, a vertical lever or wheel, controlling the fore and aft and lateral movements of the aircraft.

  'And that's that,' observed Algy philosophically, as the machine ran to a standstill.

  'As you say, that's that,' agreed Biggles, unfastening the strap of his flying cap. 'And I don't mind telling you that I'm not sorry to be on the carpet. Did you ever see visibility cut right out like that in your life?'

  'Never.'

  'Nor I. Well, we're down and that's something,' went on Biggles. 'I haven't the remotest idea where we are, except that that bit of oozy looking marsh over there is part of Norfolk, and the liquid on which we are floating is the North Sea.'

  'What are we going to do?'

  'Taxi along this creek until we find a sheltered place to moor up, and men unpack that hamper. One thing I'm not going to do is to take off again in this soup; my goodness! hark at the rain!'

  'If it keeps on it looks as if we're here for the night.'

  'We are as far as I'm concerned,' declared Biggles, as he opened the throttle a trifle and began taxiing along the low, bleak shore. 'Here we are, what about this?'

  At the spot indicated, a short, narrow arm of the creek felt its way through wire-grass covered sand-hills that arose here and there from a swampy reed-covered plain.

  'Do as well as anywhere,' agreed Algy. 'Go ahead; taxi right in and beach her here. I'll get out and have a look round.' He jumped ashore on firm sand and ran to the top of the nearest sand-hill. He was back again in a moment. 'Nothing,' he said tersely, 'not a blooming thing in sight, although I can't see more than a hundred yards if it comes to that.'

  'Well, come back in and let's have some tea; maybe the clouds will lift again presently.'

  In this hope they were doomed to disappointment however, for an hour later, although the rain had stopped, the air was still thick with mist and visibility practically nil. Presently it began to grow dark.

  'Nothing doing,' declared Biggles, 'it's clearing, I believe, but I'm not taking a chance. It will be as black as your hat in a few minutes, and night flying with fog about is not my idea of an amusing evening. What the dickens was that?' he went on in alarm, as the machine gave a sudden lurch. He put his head out of the cabin window and then laughed. 'We're a nice pair of fools,' he observed. 'Well, that settles it anyway, we're here for the night now without any argument.'

  'Why, what is it?'

  'The tide's gone out while we've been sitting here and left us high and dry; even if we could get our wheels down there isn't room to turn. No matter, it's safe anchorage, and we're well protected in this gully. It could blow a gale without hurting us.'

  'But what about grub? We look like getting no dinner.'

  'What a fellow you are; always thinking about your stomach. Let's get ashore and see if there is a house anywhere in sight. After all, we're in England, and in my experience one can't go far in England without bumping into a house of some sort.'

  In this, however, he was not altogether correct, as a close examination of the desolate landscape quickly revealed. In all directions, as far as they could see in the gathering darkness, stretched a monotonous expanse of flat, bleak moorland, in which the receding tide had left sinister-looking rivers of mud. They tried to find a way through them, but quickly gave it up after slipping knee deep in slime at every other step.

  'Come on, let's get back to the machine,' said Biggles disgustedly. 'There's no sense in drowning ourselves in this bog.'

  'Hold hard a minute, what's that over there?' asked Algy, peering into the gloom.

  'I can see what you mean; it's a building of some sort,' returned Biggles.

  They picked their way carefully towards it, but their hopes of finding a human habitation were soon dashed to the ground. As they drew near, the building resolved itself into a small, square concrete structure, with a flat roof; a single window, an open unglazed square cut in the wall, overlooked the sea. A wooden door gave access to it on the landward side.

  'Cheerful-looking hole,' observed Algy. 'You know a lot, perhaps you can tell me what sort of madman would build a place like that in a place like this, and what for?'

  Biggles grinned. 'I think I can tell you that,' he replied. 'It looks like a relic of the War, one of those pillbox* affairs they built all round the coast. They were used as look-out posts or machine-gun emplacements probably, but I'm not quite sure about that. Watch your step for barbed wire and old trenches. They had Territorials** putting up wire entanglements and digging trenches all round the east coast, and in many places, where the ground was not wanted for cultivation, they have been left just as they were at the end of the War. There you are, what did I tell you?' he went on, pointing to a zig-zag depression that wound its way through the sand-hills. On the seaward side of it was a row of rotting stakes and a tangle of barbed wire. "Yes, this is a bit of the War, there's no doubt of that,' he concluded. 'Come on, let's get back.'

  * A small reinforced concrete hut, used as a defensive position by soldiers.

  ** Soldiers of the British army, used for local defence.

  'Wait a minute, we may as well look inside; it might be more comfortable here than in the cabin,' suggested Algy.

  'There might be more room, but it will be less cheerful, and colder, I imagine,' replied Biggles, pushing the door open. 'More like a prison cell than anything else,' he went on, striking a match. 'Well, there's nothing here, let's go.'

  'Just a minute, strike another match; I saw a piece of candle – it may be useful.'

  'Candle!'

  'Yes. There's nothing funny about that, is there?'

  'No, I suppose not, except that it's odd that a candle should remain here for so long.'

  Biggles lighted the candle, of which a good half remained, and they surveyed the blank walls of the deserted building. "Yes, we shall do better in the cabin,' he said.

  'I'm not so sure. If we could get a good fire going—'

  'Fire! What are we going to burn.'

  'We could burn the door,' suggested Algy brightly.

  'Well, go ahead and pick it to pieces with your fingers,' sneered Biggles. 'It would take an axe to make any impression on that.'

  'Don't be funny,' Algy told him. 'What's this, I wonder,' he went
on, stooping and picking up a small piece of paper that was half buried on the sandy floor. He held it to the candle and a curious expression crept over his face as he looked at it. 'That's funny,' he said.

  'What is?'

  'If, as you say, this was a British dugout, how comes this here?' questioned Algy, passing him the paper.

  'Gesellschafi Deutsche Gontermann, Berlin,' read Biggles, turning the paper over. 'Well, I'm dashed. This is a label, and it doesn't look very old.'

  'What do you make of it?'

  'I don't know what to make of it, unless someone has had some German machinery stored here; a farmer, for instance.'

  'I'm not an agricultural expert, but this place doesn't look to me as if much farming has been done around here lately,' replied Algy. 'Has that anything to do with it, I wonder?'

  Biggles saw that he was looking at something on the wall, and crossed over to see what it was.

  'What about that?' asked Algy.

  Someone at some time had drawn a curious device in black paint on the seaward wall. It appeared thus:

  'Beats me,' muttered Biggles, 'unless, it's an Admiralty mark of some sort – that may be it.'

  'Reminds me of those plates you see on walls – fire hydrants, aren't they?'

  'Yes,' replied Biggles slowly. He put out his hand and touched the mark; then he withdrew it and looked at his fingers. 'Why, it's wet!' he said in an amazed whisper. 'Someone must use this place, but what on earth for is more than I can imagine unless it is the Admiralty, or the Ministry of Fisheries – if there is such a thing. But one thing is certain; that sign, or whatever you like to call it, means something. By Jove! I believe that hydrant idea of yours was right; those marks mean distance and position. They couldn't mean anything else. That arrow at the bottom, for instance, and the M. If M means "Mile," it means something is half a mile straight down, so obviously that isn't it. What else could it mean besides mile – metre – that's it. Half a metre – just over eighteen inches.'

  'Perhaps it's buried treasure?' suggested Algy hopefully.