Biggles and the Black Peril Page 3

  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 raided 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 by 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, shielding the flame with his coat, struck a match, 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 the 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 on his back he allowed himself to be carried towards the beach. 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 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.

  '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 German – 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 Algy. 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 anoth
er, 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. He decided to take the bull by the horns; to pretend that he had not seen the craft was asking for trouble. 'You're Imperial Airways* pilots, I suppose,' he observed. 'Have you made a forced landing?'

  * The forerunner of British Airways.

  '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 beck-o ned 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 cigarette case.

  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. F. C.'* If any further proof of his identity was needed, it was there. Inside the case was a photograph of himself, in flying cap, and goggles, standing beside the Vandal. Smyth, his mechanic, had taken it a few days before, and had given him a print just as they were taking off; he had slipped it into his cigarette case for safety. Blackbeard, of course, had seen it; there was no doubt of mat. He glanced up and met his mocking eyes.

  * Royal Flying Corps, the precursor of the RAF.

  'I'll give you a joyride,' said the German 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 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 he 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 sleeper-built railway hut that stood beside a narrow gauge railway, long disused 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's starved nostrils an appetizing aroma.

  'Put that fire out, Ginger – quick!' gasped Biggles.

  'What is it – cops after you?' grunted the boy, care-fully removing the tin before trampling the fire into extinction. 'Say! If you've broken out of jail you can count on me,' came the small voice from the darkness.

  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.

  * A lot of words Ginger uses such as 'cops' and 'jail' are American terms and were not commonly used in Britain in the 1930s, when this book was written – hence Biggles' comment.

  '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?'

  'Join the Air Force. If they won't have me, I'm going to Croydon* to watch the air liners. What are you doing here, and how did you get that dud foot? I thought I heard shots just now – was that anything to do with you?'

  * Croydon was used as one of the principal London airports by commercial airlines before the second world war.

  '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 it, 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 OK,' 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 Hebblethwaite.'

  'Let's stick to Ginger, it's shorter,' suggested Biggles.

  'OK with me,' agreed the boy. 'What's your name by the way?'

  'Bigglesworth.'

  Ginger started violently. 'Bigglesworth! Not the war pilot by any chance?*'

  * See Biggles in France and Biggles Flies East (published by Red Fox).