No Rest For Biggles Read online

  He did not overlook that having the cutters he was not compelled to keep to the path. He could enter the compound at any point he wished. Instead of following the wire round the outside of the camp he could cut straight across the middle of it; but as to do that would mean passing between Christophe’s hut on the one side, and the soldiers’ living quarters on the other, he did not entertain the idea; but he bore it in mind for an emergency. He carried on along the wire.

  MOVE AND COUNTERMOVE

  BIGGLES HAD TAKEN IT for granted that the wire ran all round the camp. It was a natural supposition. There had never been the slightest reason to think otherwise. That this was not the case was revealed when, after walking for about five minutes he nearly fell into a river. In fact, he would almost certainly have done so had not certain sinister movements set the water moving, so that the ripples gleamed in the faint moonlight that filtered through the branches overhead.

  He pulled up short, not a little startled, for a number of twin protuberances rising just above the water told him what had caused the sudden turbulence in the water. Crocodiles. He went cold all over when he realized that had the reptiles not moved on his appearance he would have fallen among them; for the water seemed to be stagnant, or nearly so.

  He made haste to ascertain the lie of the land, and this is what he found. Christophe, either as part of his defence system or to have an ample supply of water available, had backed his camp on a stream, or possibly the arm of a lake—it was impossible to see which. Anyway, it was quite narrow. Perhaps fifteen to twenty yards across. The barbed wire fence ran down into the water and there it ended. There was no need to continue it along the edge of the water because the crocodiles provided an even more efficacious barrier. That the crocodiles were there was in the natural order of things, for the creatures occur in all West African waters. Garbage thrown in from the camp would no doubt attract them in numbers to this particular spot.

  How far this water obstacle extended Biggles was unable to see. Not that it mattered. Ten yards or a hundred yards it was all the same. There could be no question of putting a foot in the water.

  It was now evident to him that he could do one of two things. He could go back the way he had come or he could cut the wire and walk along the back of the camp, skirting the river, to the opposite side of the compound—or to the point where the river ended. This, after a pause to weigh up the risks of, both methods, was the course he chose. All he knew about this part of the camp was what he had been able to see from the prison pen. The men’s quarters were there. What else there might be he did not know, and he wasted no time guessing. Unfortunately, the moon had passed its zenith, and being below the tops of the tall forest trees left that side of the camp in inky darkness; so there was no question of a reconnaissance from where he stood.

  Out came the cutters and he was soon on the inside of the fence, having again only severed the bottom strands. He had a purpose in this. Should he have to retire in a hurry he knew exactly where the gaps he had made occurred, whereas, in the darkness, they would be difficult for anyone else to find. Looking across the compound he could see that the fire in the radio hut had either burnt itself out or had been extinguished. An orange glow marked the spot. Figures could still be seen moving against it. What concerned him more were torches coming along the path. Anyway, he took them to be on the outside of the wire. Sometimes the torches stopped, from which he gathered the impression that search was being made for gaps. If no gaps were found Christophe would suppose that whoever had smashed the radio was still inside the compound. It was unlikely, Biggles thought, that von Stalhein would tell him that he knew definitely that the escapees had wire cutters, for that would mean explaining how he knew. At present it was only assumed.

  The conditions in the compound were more dangerous than would normally have been the case at that hour, when most of the soldiers would be sleeping. That they were now on the move was Biggles’s own fault. They had been called out to deal with the fire and the place was buzzing like a disturbed wasps’ nest. However, with people on the path there could be no going back, so he pushed on along the river bank, keeping as close as he dare to the water—which, it may be said, was not very close, for stealthy splashings told their own story, and natives were to be preferred to crocodiles.

  He had a fright when he stumbled and almost fell into what at first he took to be another stream; but it turned out to be only a water-logged piece of ground and he hurried on, kicking slime from his shoes.

  The worst part of the trip was now at hand, with the men’s huts on the left, and the river cutting off his retreat on the right. In a way the huts served a useful purpose, coming as they did between him and the open part of the compound, where there was most activity. With no one in sight behind the huts he broke into a trot, and a minute later, to his great satisfaction, saw a fence in front of him. This could only mean that he had reached the far side of the compound, where there was no water, or a fence would not be necessary. And so it turned out, the fence beginning at the point where the stream turned away. Out came the cutters again and another minute saw him on the path, striding on towards the main gateway, having in his travels completely circumnavigated the camp.

  Voices raised in anger and protest in front of him brought a frown to his forehead until he was close enough to hear what it was about. Just inside the gateway stood a small group of Christophe’s soldiers, one of them, from his manner, an officer or N.C.O. He spoke in coarse negro-American English. The trouble was about a lost rifle. And such was the stream of abuse poured at the sentry who had lost it that Biggles was almost sorry for the wretched fellow—although, of course, he had only himself to blame.

  Biggles, who was making for the track that led to the landing ground, was now held up until the altercation was concluded, for the row was going on so close to the gate that he could not hope to get past without being seen. Wherefore, at a distance of about ten yards, he drew back a little into the forest to await the end of the business. As a matter of detail he did try to reach the track by feeling his way through the jungle, but after having nearly gouged an eye out on the end of a stick, and treading on something that snapped with an alarming amount of noise, he gave it up and returned to the path just in time to see the arrival of Christophe and his bodyguard, apparently brought to the spot by the argument.

  That Christophe was in a nasty mood was hardly surprising after what had happened since sunset, but that was really no excuse for his behaviour when he was informed what the fuss was about. Snatching a cane from his gold-braided lieutenant he set about the miserable sentry in such a passion that Biggles, who, right or wrongly, held himself responsible, found it hard to restrain himself from interference. But still, he consoled himself, the sentry had brought the trouble on his head by his slackness in the first place.

  In the end it all turned out for the best, except for the culprit, who staggered away with his hands over his head under a rain of blows. The rest watched, turning their backs on the gate, which gave Biggles an unexpected chance to slip along to the track, which he seized with alacrity, for time was getting on and dawn not far away. Once daylight came, movement, he knew, would be much more difficult.

  The rest was comparatively easy. Observing that Christophe’s plane was not where it had cracked up he paused for a minute to survey the airfield; but it was now the dark hour before sunrise, and seeing nothing of it he held on along the side of the forest for the rendezvous. He went slowly, for he thought there might now be some traffic between the hangar and the compound, so by the time he had reached his objective the first pale streak of the false dawn was creeping up over the horizon.

  Of Bertie and Ginger there was no sign, so thinking he might have been mistaken in the spot he took a pace forward to carry on a little way. A dead leaf rustled under his foot. Slight though the sound was it must have been heard, for Bertie’s voice said softly: “Is that you, Biggles?” The words seemed to come from the air.

  Biggles looked
up and could just make out two vague figures perched on a branch.

  “What the deuce are you doing up there?” he demanded.

  Bertie answered: “Roostin’, old boy; roostin’.”

  “What’s the idea?”

  “You’re in the line of march of all the ants in Africa.”

  Biggles looked down. There was now a little light. “I don’t see any ants.”

  “They were there a little while ago.”

  “Well they’re not here now. Pack up this dicky-bird stuff and come down.”

  Bertie and Ginger dropped to the ground. Ginger explained: “I slept all night. I was still asleep when Bertie hit me a crack and said the place was swarming with ants. Which it was. They were all over us. Not daring to leave the place in case you came back we shinned up that tree. Bertie says he thinks you got the hut. He saw the glow.”

  “Yes. There wasn’t much to it. I don’t think Christophe will do any broadcasting tonight—or rather, this morning. What’s happened here?”

  “A small army of blacks carried the machine, or pushed it on one wheel, to the hangar.”

  “I wonder why they were in such a hurry to move it. I should have thought that could have been left till daylight. No matter. Are there any biscuits in that bag of yours, Ginger?”

  “One or two.”

  “Then let’s have one. I’m hungry after being on the trot all night. Nuisance one has to eat.”

  Remarked Bertie: “Unless we get some grub from somewhere we’re all going to be really peckish by the time Algy gets back. What’s the drill now?”

  “I don’t think we dare try anything in daylight. With Christophe’s radio scrambled and his aircraft grounded we can afford to have a breather. I could do with a wash.”

  “I noticed it,” murmured Bertie. “You look as if you’d been wallowing in a bog.”

  “I have,” answered Biggles grimly. “But it wasn’t from choice. Let’s retire to a distance, as they say. This place isn’t going to be a health resort when the black boys start on the warpath, which may happen any time now. What the...!” He broke off, as the sudden bellow of aero engines split the early morning hush.

  “Don’t say they’ve repaired the machine already,” muttered Bertie.

  “That isn’t the secret job,” declared Ginger. “Sounds more like a—Hastings.”

  His voice trailed off as from under the trees at the far end at the landing ground, on the same side as themselves, appeared, taxi-ing ponderously, an aircraft. It was a Hastings. Naturally, his first thought was for the machine in which Tony and his party had escaped.

  Biggles soon guessed the truth. “That must be the Hastings in which Tony was forced down when he was flying the General to Dakar. They’ve had it hidden there all the time.” The big transport plane turned, and came on down the side of the forest towards the hangar.

  “What are they going to do with it?” asked Ginger, wonderingly.

  “Now their own machine is bust I’d say they’re going to fit the secret weapon in it—or try to.”

  “Well, blow me down,” breathed Bertie. “That’s a bit of a facer, if you see what I mean.”

  “Yes, that’s certainly an unexpected shot out of the locker,” agreed Biggles.

  “Question. What do we do next?” Ginger spoke.

  “They’re not likely to get the machine into the air today with the weapon fitted so for the moment the position remains unaltered,” replied Biggles thoughtfully. “But it will be altered if we stay here much longer, and they start looking for us. There’s nothing we can do so let’s stick to the original plan and put ourselves where we’re less likely to be hunted.”

  “Don’t you think we ought to try to get nearer the place where we’re to meet Algy, in case he comes tomorrow?” asked Ginger.

  “Definitely,” answered Biggles. “I had that in mind. We’ll do a big swing round that should put us within striking distance of it—say, perhaps somewhere half way between here and there. Come on. Let’s be moving —no wait—just a minute. What’s all this?”

  From the track now appeared the jeep. Reaching the airfield it turned directly for the hangar. Seated in the vehicle could be seen, among others, Christophe and von Stalhein. Biggles looked from the jeep to the Hastings, which, with its engines still running, had turned to face the open ground.

  “I’ve a feeling that we may have got this business weighed up all wrong,” he said slowly. “That must be Dessalines, the pilot, just getting down from the Hastings. He’s dressed for flying, not for the workshop. Is he going to take von Stalhein somewhere?”

  “As there doesn’t seem to be anything for von Stalhein to do here—if he simply came over to have a look at you—maybe he’s decided to go back to where he came from,” volunteered Ginger. “The machine that brought him being out of action, Dessalines is going to take him home in the Hastings.”

  “That’s what it looks like,” conceded Biggles. “But there could be another angle to that—as von Stalhein might see it. Why is he in such a hurry to go? He wants the secret weapon—and he wants it badly. If he leaves here he might never get back. He’s a slick customer. Put yourself in his position. That’s always a good thing to do to get a line on the enemy’s intentions.”

  “I don’t get it,” murmured Bertie, polishing his monocle.

  “Bluntly, let’s assume that Dessalines is going to take von Stalhein to his hide-out, wherever that might be. What’s to stop von Stalhein, when the machine lands, from grabbing Dessalines as a sort of hostage, or even coming back here with some of his tough agents to force Christophe’s hand. He couldn’t get here overland even if he had known where the place was; but he knows where it is now, and there would be nothing to stop him coming back by air if he had a machine available.”

  Ginger looked startled. “Do you think he intends to try something like that?”

  Biggles shrugged. “I don’t know. It could happen. Can you think of anything to prevent it?”

  “No.”

  “Neither can I. Of this I’m certain. If von Stalhein leaves here it will only be because he’s got some scheme on. What makes me suspicious is his anxiety to go—assuming he is going. The secret weapon is still here. He doesn’t leave a job in the middle; but obviously he can’t do anything single-handed. This hooks up with something I overheard last night outside Christophe’s headquarters. I didn’t catch what it was, but von Stalhein had evidently put forward a suggestion. Christophe, it seemed to me reluctantly, agreed. He was pretty steamed up at the time. Remember, this was after the secret machine had piled up. Von Stalhein’s nimble brain would soon work out his next move, particularly as he knows we’re here. With Christophe alone he could afford to take time, but with us in the offing he knows he’s no time to lose.”

  “Well, he’s going off in the Hastings, anyway,” observed Ginger.

  The pilot, a coloured man, had climbed back into his seat. Von Stalhein was standing at the door shaking hands with Christophe. He got in. The door was shut. The aircraft taxied out for its run. In three minutes it was in the air, climbing for height.

  “Christophe thinks he’s smart,” said Biggles softly. “What a hope he’s got against that shrewd unscrupulous plotter he just shook hands with. Well, I warned him. But like most people who think they’re clever he wouldn’t listen. He’s got a lesson coming, if I know anything.”

  “What are we going to do about it, old boy?” inquired Bertie.

  “Yes. What?” said Biggles softly. “The business now hangs on how long the Hastings is going to be away. It might be an hour, it might be a day. We’d better not get too far away. Let me think.”

  Biggles’s decision was soon made. “You know I’m always against breaking up the party because it isn’t easy to get together again, but here I think we shall have to. We can’t be here and at the rendezvous with Algy at the same time. For a start we’ll get to a safer distance, but near enough to hear the Hastings if it comes back. Then, Bertie, I’ll ask you to push al
ong and wait for Algy. We can’t have him blundering into this, looking for us, if we’re not there to meet him. That’s what would happen. I’ll keep Ginger with me because he’s got the radio. Let’s move off. We’ll settle the details presently.”

  In single file they set off through the forest.

  BENIGHTED

  WITH BIGGLES LEADING the way, gun in hand ready, for trouble, they pushed on for about half a mile, when the open country appeared ahead. This, as they realized, was more dangerous ground, for anyone or anything moving across it would, unless an obstacle intervened, be in view of scouts on the edge of the forest. Even as they halted they saw a body of half a dozen blacks moving towards the forest, but on a line that would take them well to one side.

  Biggles stopped. “I’m afraid this is going to be awkward,” he remarked. “We’d better let those fellows get clear before we show ourselves. Actually, I shan’t go much farther. We shall have to keep handy to see what goes on should the Hastings come back. It came this way. I’d like to know where it was bound for. I mean, in whose territory, and on what sort of airfield, official or unofficial.”

  “What aerodromes are there in Liberia?” asked Ginger.

  “There’s a proper airport at Monrovia, the capital.”

  “The coast seems clear; what about me pressing on before the sun gets really cracking,” suggested Bertie.

  “All right,” agreed Biggles. “We’ll see you out of the danger zone and then work our way back a bit. In doing that we shall act as a rearguard for you.”