No Rest For Biggles Page 3

  His reconnaissance ended when the jeep stopped at the door of the long building, at the door of which stood a sentry. Here he was invited curtly to get down. Having no alternative he complied, promptly to find himself being searched, everything being taken from his pockets by the officer in charge of the party. Biggles had to get a grip on himself to submit to this, but the situation called not only for self-control but prudence. He protested as a matter of course. “What is the meaning of this outrage?” he asked indignantly.

  The question was not answered, so he said no more, his real concern being for his gun, which was more likely to be found should he attempt to resist. As it was, to his satisfaction and relief, the searcher went no lower than his trousers pockets.

  This irritating ordeal over he was escorted into the building to find himself in a crudely furnished room of some size. At one end was a trestle table. Behind it, watching Biggles’s entrance, sat a man, a negro. Conspicuous on the wall behind him was a picture, a cheap framed print. It was a portrait, a garish study of a black man in uniform; and into Biggles’s eyes as he looked at it dawned the light of understanding, for he recognized the person portrayed. It was Christophe of Haiti, sometimes called the Black Napoleon. A pure-blooded negro, born a slave, he had by his own efforts raised himself to the position of Dictator on the great island in the West Indies once owned by France.

  The man sitting at the table apparently noticed Biggles’s interest in the picture, for speaking fluently in a deep, husky voice, with a pronounced American drawl, he said: “You know him, huh?”

  “I know of him,” acknowledged Biggles.

  “He was a great man!”

  “If his greatness is to be judged by the number of murders he committed, then he was a giant,” stated Biggles, drily.

  “He cleaned up duh place.”

  “And at the finish, very properly, he got cleaned up himself.”

  “De rats turned on him.”

  “Even rats got tired of being butchered in cold blood.”

  The negro frowned. “Go steady, mister. You’re talkin’ about a relation of mine.”

  “I could see you were an admirer but I didn’t realize it was a family matter.”

  “He was my great-great-granddad.” Pride rode high in the negro’s voice.

  “I see,” said Biggles, slowly, but thinking fast. “Have you inherited his ideas?”

  “Could be.”

  Biggles made a quick appraisal of the man in front of him. He was about fifty, tall and powerfully built; but his expression was not that of a simple, native-born African. It conveyed too much self-confidence, and behind it, Biggles knew, was a personality to be reckoned with. It was significant that the man, instead of plastering himself with gold braid like his aide-de-camp, wore a plain linen boiler suit with no other decoration than five stars on the collar.

  The next question he put to Biggles was: “Where is Colonel Rayle?”

  “What’s all this about Colonel Rayle?” demanded Biggles. “I’ve never seen him in my life.” Which was perfectly true. “I must get on,” he added. “How far am I from the nearest British official?”

  “A long way,” was the reply, given smoothly.

  “Then I’d better be starting.”

  “I wouldn’t advise you to do that, mister.”

  “Why not?”

  “These woods around here ain’t safe for a white man.”

  “Can’t you provide an escort? You seem to have plenty of troops.” Actually, Biggles was in no immediate hurry to leave. He wanted to talk to the prisoners. But he thought it would look more natural if he expressed a wish to push on.

  “Sorry, but I need my men here.”

  “Are we in Liberia?”

  “Sure.”

  “And these troops I see about are Liberian soldiers?”

  “Wa’al, not exactly.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “What I say. Take it easy here for a day or two till I’ve made some enquiries, then we’ll have another chat, you and me. What’s your name, stranger?”

  “Bigglesworth.” As Biggles’s name was on the logbooks in the aircraft it would have been pointless; possibly dangerous, to prevaricate. He could see no reason to, anyway.

  “Okay, Mr. Bigglesworth,” concluded the negro, rising. “We’ll talk again presently. Meanwhile you’ll be with friends.” He made a signal to the escort.

  Biggles was taken out and, as he hoped he would be, marched to the prisoners’ compound. A gate in the wire, where an armed sentry stood on duty, was opened, and closed behind him. A group of white men, who had been watching, converged on him. He knew only one of them. It was Wing Commander Tony Wragg, the chief pilot of the lost Hastings.

  “Well, knock me sideways! It is Biggles,” greeted Tony. “What the heck are you doing here? I thought you were in—”

  Biggles silenced him with a gesture. “Not so loud,” he warned.

  Tony nodded. “I get it. For my own sake I’m not sorry to see you. For your sake, I am.”

  “Where can we talk?” asked Biggles.

  “Come over here in the shade and for a start I’ll introduce you to everybody. I’ll give you a tip, too. He’s not here at the moment, but with us is a chap named Hollweg—Bruno Hollweg. He says he’s an Austrian. His tale is he’s a naturalist. He was taking photos of wild life on the French frontier when he was picked up and brought in. We’ve reason to think he’s a spy, put in to listen to our conversation—you know, the old German prisoner-of-war camp racket. Meet the gang.”

  Tony introduced in turn: General Homer Mander, US. Army, and his three secretaries. Then followed two members of the Hastings’ crew: Sergeant Norton, navigator, and Corporal Penn, radio operator.

  Biggles looked round. “Where’s Vic Roberts, your second pilot? Isn’t he with you?”

  There was a stiffening in the atmosphere. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s dead. So’s Laxton, my L.A.C. steward.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “They were speared to death trying to escape.”

  Biggles stared, his expression slowly changing from incredulity to horror. “You can’t mean that,” he protested.

  “It’s true.”

  “But are you sure?”

  “Quite sure. They showed us the bodies, presumably to discourage any further attempts to get away.”

  “That puts this business in a very different light,” said Biggles grimly. “At least it sets our clock right in one respect. They’ve no intention of ever letting us go, knowing that we’d report the murders.”

  “Christophe didn’t do the killing—oh no,” sneered Tony. “He was emphatic in pointing that out. Vic and Laxton were killed by wild men in the bush over whom he’s no control—so he says. That’s his tale, and how are you going to disprove it? It was these murders that pretty well confirmed that Hollweg isn’t what he pretends to be. Vic was always suspicious of him. He was a prisoner-of-war in Germany and could smell a stooge a mile away. We made a hole under the wire. Vic was going to fetch help. Laxton offered to go with him. After dark they stripped, blackened themselves with charcoal to look like natives, and went out. Their bodies were brought back inside half an hour.”

  “Did Hollweg know what they were doing?”

  “Yes. We tried to keep it from him but he spotted them blacking themselves at the last moment. He disappeared, and it was then, we reckon, that he squealed. He’d been seen talking to Christophe before that. Maybe he’s only trying to ingratiate himself, but he’s not to be trusted, anyway. Apart from the murders we haven’t been badly treated, although our quarters are pretty grim and the grub’s ghastly.”

  “Who’s this Christophe? I take it he’s the big boy I just saw over the way. Claims to be a descendant of Christophe of Haiti.”

  “That’s right. Proud of it, too. Aims to set up his own empire in Africa.”

  “Does he say that?”

  “Too true he does. This
set-up here is the nucleus.”

  “Is this a personal matter or is the Liberian Government in it?”

  “We think it’s personal. The Liberian Government is a long way away and isn’t what you’d call strong. Of course, they must know that something’s going on here but it’d be easier to leave it alone than tackle it. It isn’t just a matter of the troops you see. There’s no doubt that the tribes round about are in with Christophe.”

  General Mander stepped in. “Sure. That’s right. Whether this fellow is a descendant of the Christophe or not, he’s got big ideas. He could be. But of this I am sure. He was never born in Africa. He knows the States as well as I do. He knows a sight too much. He knew I was on that plane and he knew what I’d been doing. The way he grabbed my portfolios made that clear. In some way, I can’t imagine how, this whole idea is hooked up with the gathering of secret information.”

  Biggles shook his head. “That doesn’t sound like a negro racket. Have you never seen white men around here?”

  “Only Hollweg, and he’s supposed to be a prisoner.”

  “Well, I’d say there are whites in this picture,” averred Biggles. “They’re using the blacks, and keeping under cover behind them. How did Christophe know about General Mander and the plane he was on? How did he know about me coming this way? Don’t ask me to believe that a black upstart in the wildest part of Africa maintains a worldwide Intelligence Service. That’s too much. Why did you land?”

  “My engines died on me.”

  “Did you know you were off your course?”

  “Of course not—till I touched down here.”

  “You knew about two other machines disappearing?”

  “Yes. But that happened nearer to the eastern route and I didn’t associate them with my trouble. In fact, I didn’t know what was happening until I was told I was a prisoner. Even then I thought I’d barged into Liberian red tape.”

  “Do you know what happened to the two other machines?”

  “Christophe says he heard a rumour of two machines having engine trouble and trying to land. They both crashed and were burnt out. Christophe, of course, doesn’t admit that he had anything to do with it.”

  “That’s a grim tale—if it’s true.”

  “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be. If the fellows, passengers and crews, had been taken prisoner, they’d probably be here with us. Why do you suppose they’re keeping us here?”

  “Goodness knows. Hostages, perhaps. Was there another machine in the air near when your engines cut?”

  “Yes. It’s here. We often hear it and occasionally see it.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “Nothing. I fancy it’s a prototype of some sort.”

  “Ever seen the pilot?”

  “No.”

  “Have you any idea at all what made your engines cut?”

  “Not a clue. Admittedly the trouble came out of the blue, but I didn’t really grasp what was happening until I was looking for somewhere to get down.”

  “You didn’t manage to send out an S.O.S.?”

  “No. Corporal Penn, like me, suddenly realized we were off course, but before we could do anything about fixing our position we were on the floor. We realize now that something was wrong with the compass. Do you know what made your engines cut?”

  Biggles shook his head. “No. But I do know this. The anti-aircraft device that’s being used here was never the invention of a coloured man. How did Christophe get hold of it? That isn’t the only question. What’s he using for money to pay these fancy troops of his? He may be ambitious, but ambition alone isn’t enough to support a racket of this size. There’s somebody more powerful than Christophe behind it.”

  “If this is a new skirmish in the Cold War I can understand why the enemy wanted to get hold of General Mander; but why did they want you?” queried Tony. “What were you doing in this part of the world, anyway?”

  “Taking a Hastings to Dakar.”

  “Carrying anything or anyone of importance?”

  Biggles smiled. “Nothing more important than myself. As a matter of fact, chum, strictly between ourselves, I was looking for you. Which reminds me. What happened to your machine? I didn’t see it as I came in.”

  “I don’t know. We left it where I landed. We were brought here and haven’t been out since. Vic was hoping to find it, and get away in it.”

  “Well, it isn’t on the airfield now.”

  “Then they must have moved it. They’ve got a pilot, so why not? They wouldn’t be likely to leave it in the open for a search machine to spot.”

  At this juncture General Mander, who had been standing close, stepped into the conversation. Taking Biggles by the arm he said quietly: “Come over here a minute. I’d like to speak to you alone.”

  With Biggles wondering what was coming they walked clear of the group, when the General went on: “When we saw them bringing you along in the jeep Wragg recognized you, and he said, ‘that’s Bigglesworth of the Special Air Police’.”

  “Was Hollweg present when he said that?” asked Biggles, quickly.

  The General thought for a moment. “I don’t remember seeing him. He could have been. But tell me this. Do I understand from your conversation with Wragg that you are a British Security Officer?”

  “I am.”

  “Investigating this business?”

  “Yes, although for obvious reasons I wouldn’t care for that to be known here. If it got to Christophe’s ears my investigations would end abruptly.”

  “I guess you’re right, at that,” said the General, seriously.

  “Had you some special reason for asking?”

  “Very much so. You’ve taken me into your confidence, now I’ll take you into mine. I’ve said nothing to the others because being top secret I couldn’t spread it around. You’re different, and in view of what you’re doing I reckon you ought to know what I’m going to tell you, When I left the States a year ago our top scientists and engineers were experimenting with a new device—use the old hackneyed phrase secret weapon if you like—that would alter a ship’s course and, when necessary, cut its motors dead. At that time it would only work from very close quarters; but it was a start, and there seemed no reason why the range shouldn’t be lengthened. You see what I’m driving at?”

  “I do indeed,” answered Biggles. “It explains a lot. Thanks for telling me. I take it you believe that Christophe has somehow got his hands on the new weapon and is using it for his own ends.”

  “I figure it like this. He certainly didn’t invent it. And if Iron Curtain spies had gotten it—well, it wouldn’t be here. Crazy though it seems, this guy Christophe must have got his hands on it and aims to use it to set up a black empire of his own. One of my secretaries is new out from home. He may know more about it. I’ll ask him. But here comes Hollweg. He doesn’t talk much but he listens plenty. We’d better get back to the others.”

  “Have you or your staff any weapons between you?” asked Biggles, as they strolled towards the group. “Sooner or later this business will come to a showdown and I’d better know how you stand.”

  “Not one. Have you?”

  “I’ve a gun.”

  “How come they didn’t take it off you? I reckon you were frisked.”

  “I was, but they didn’t find it.”

  The General looked at Biggles curiously. “Say, that was real smart of you.”

  They walked on.

  Biggles now had a good look at the alleged Austrian naturalist who was standing, hands in pockets, not with the group but a little way off as if he realized he was not popular. Yet, Biggles noticed, he was near enough to hear the conversation.

  He was a black bearded, black haired, little man of perhaps forty, with a permanent expression that was almost a smile; but a lack of humour in his eyes suggested that this was more forced than natural. He could have been an Austrian. But, for that matter, reflected Biggles, he could have been almost anything. He could well understand Vic Ro
berts being suspicious of him. He wouldn’t have trusted the fellow a yard.

  Where had he come from? Had he, Biggles wondered uneasily, been within earshot when Tony had made his unfortunate but natural remark about the Air Police?

  Almost as if to answer his question two members of his recent escort came striding purposefully towards the prisoners’ pen. Cried one: “Dat new man Biggsfort. De General he want talk to youse.”

  Biggles looked hard at the speaker. It struck him as significant that so many of these blacks should be able to speak English. As he turned away from the General to obey the order he remarked, softly: “If Christophe didn’t bring this bunch with him from the States they must be Kroo boys from the coast, where they’d pick up the language loading and unloading ships.”

  The General nodded grimly. “Bad lot wherever he got ‘em. Watch how you go.”

  “I’ll watch,” promised Biggles.

  SINISTER DEVELOPMENTS

  As SOON as Biggles saw Christophe’s face he knew from the expression on it that something had happened; that his attitude had changed; so he prepared himself for what he suspected was going to be a difficult session.

  Christophe’s first words confirmed his surmise.

  “Come right in—copper,” ordered the negro. He spoke quietly, smoothly, with a hint of a sneer, and a slight emphasis on the last word.

  Biggles didn’t answer. So Hollweg had heard, and betrayed him, was the thought that flashed through his mind. The interview looked like being even more awkward than he had expected.

  “If you figure you’re wise you’re fooling yourself,” drawled Christophe. “You weren’t wise to come here.”

  Biggles, old campaigner that he was, knew that in a clash, mental or physical, the man who first relinquishes the initiative is already half-way to defeat. Wherefore, even in the present circumstances, he was determined not to yield an inch of ground. “Before you start patting yourself on the back you’d better have a good look at yourself and see how wise you are,” he returned evenly. “Mind if I sit down?” Without waiting for an answer he pulled forward a chair, sat on it, took a cigarette from his case, which still lay on the table, and lit it. “Go ahead,” he invited. “I presume you have something to say.”