No Rest For Biggles Read online

  Ginger raged. The beast would have to choose that particular spot at that particular moment, he told himself furiously. He had no fear of Algy not seeing a creature of such size, but while it was there he certainly wouldn’t be able to land. To make matters more difficult the beast occasionally moved its position a trifle, so there was no knowing where it would be by the time Algy made his approach, should he try to get in. Aside from that, knowing the unpredictable nature of such animals, Ginger knew it was just as likely to charge the aircraft as run away from it.

  The rhino was the best part of a hundred yards from where he was standing with his back to the bushes, and short of exposing himself to death should the beast charge—as it well might if he molested it—he could think of only one possible way of moving it. As a weapon his pistol was of course quite useless against the armour-plated monster. He would have about as much chance of stopping it, should it come for him, as he would of putting a tank out of action. But he might alarm it, he thought, in which case it would move off. At the distance it was standing it was unlikely to see him, for the rhino is notoriously short-sighted.

  Raising his pistol he took careful aim and fired.

  At the crack of the shot, although Ginger knew he hadn’t hit it, the beast sprang round to face each point of the compass in quick succession, seeking the cause of the noise. Then, to his annoyance, it calmly resumed its grazing. Again Ginger fired. Again he missed. Again the great beast spun round. Again, apparently satisfied that the shot was not directed at it, the creature continued its meal.

  Ginger became really annoyed, for the Halifax was now circling, waiting for the rhino to move off or for Ginger to do something about it. What Ginger did was fire two shots in quick succession at the same time letting out a yell. The second shot found its mark, for he distinctly heard the smack of the bullet. It may have stung. At all events, the result surpassed all expectations.

  The rhino snorted, squealed with rage, and then set off at such a gallop that Ginger would not have thought possible. At first it travelled at an angle that would miss him by a comfortable margin; but then it must have winded him, or seen the bushes, and as there was nothing else to charge made for them like a run-away locomotive.

  Ginger stood still. It was all he could do. Had there been a tree handy he would have swarmed up it, but there wasn’t one within a mile. Wherefore, stiff with fright, he could only stand his ground, hoping the beast, which had its head down, wouldn’t see him. Apparently it didn’t, for passing about ten yards away it went through the bushes like a bulldozer in a cloud of flying twigs, clods and dust. It didn’t stop, and to Ginger’s unspeakable relief he heard its hooves receding into the distance.

  By the time he was able to breathe again the Halifax was on the ground, trundling towards him. On legs that felt curiously weak he walked out to meet it.

  Bertie jumped down. He was laughing. “By Jove, old boy, you certainly put the breeze up that big boy who was standing on the runway.”

  Ginger considered him mirthlessly. “I put the breeze up him! What you mean is, he put the gust up me. It wasn’t in the least funny,” he added coldly. “Nor is strolling about this open-air menagerie armed with a popgun.”

  Algy joined them. “Give us the gen,” he invited.

  Standing in the shade of the fuselage, for the sun was beginning to warm up, Ginger told all that had happened from the time the Hastings’ compass had taken the machine off its course.

  “Well, that’s how Biggles wanted it,” averred Algy. “What’s the drill now?”

  Ginger answered: “There are two or three things we ought to do. First, we ought to let the Air-Commodore know what’s happened so that he doesn’t send any more V.I.P.’s this way. We shall have to try to contact Biggles in case he’s in a jam. And lastly, since it’s unlikely that Biggles is in a position to do it, we should find out where this unknown machine is parked and have a dekko at the weapon that can cut engines in the air. The more you think about that the grimmer it looks.”

  “Absolutely. Couldn’t agree more,” murmured Bertie.

  “It looks to me,” opined Algy thoughtfully, “as if the Halifax is too big for this job. It sets such a limit on where we can get down. We had to use something with a long range in the first place, but now we know where we are an Auster would be a jolly sight handier.”

  Ginger shrugged. “That’s up to you.”

  “I tell you what,” decided Algy. “I don’t see how we can leave you here on your own, Ginger. Bertie had better stay with you. I’ll whistle along to Dakar, and leaving the Halifax there push on home in the regular service. I’ll report to the Air-Commodore and come back in the Auster. We should then have both types available.”

  “You mean you’ll come back here, where we are now?”

  “Yes. In the Auster. The Halifax can stay at Dakar. I ought to be back in three or four days.”

  “All right. We’ll call this the rendezvous,” said Ginger. “It might be possible to get the Auster down nearer the forest. We’ll keep an eye open for a place.”

  “Fair enough. You push along with Bertie and try to locate Biggles and anything else of interest. I’ll come back here. If you’re not here when I get here I’ll wait. Today’s Tuesday. With most of the day in front of me I’ll aim to be back Friday at latest. Be careful what you get up to. I mean, don’t risk barging in on Biggles before he’s had a chance to get the information he wants. If you can find out just where he is it’ll be enough to go on with.”

  “Okay.”

  “If that’s all I’ll press on,” said Algy. “Get a supply of grub out of the machine.”

  “I’ll have a clip or two of cartridges at the same time,” said Ginger, remembering that his gun was nearly empty.

  These arrangements complete, Algy was about to go aboard when from the distance came the drone of an aircraft. The sound came from the south. Standing still together they stared in that direction.

  It was some minutes before they saw the machine, the reason being that it was very low, and at the same time flying up and down in parallel lines like a survey machine taking strip photographs.

  “That’s it,” cried Ginger. “That’s the kite that was hanging about us when the engines cut. It followed us in when we went down. And I reckon I know what it’s doing. It’s looking for me—or for whoever killed that bloke in the forest.”

  “If it comes this way the pilot will see my machine,” said Algy tersely.

  “In which case you’re likely to stay here,” declared Ginger. “Push off while it’s some distance away. They won’t hear you for the noise of their own engines, and they won’t see you if you keep low.”

  “I think you’re right,” answered Algy crisply. “So long. See you about Friday.” He hurried into the cockpit. The engines roared. The Halifax swung round and raced over the rough ground into the air.

  Ginger breathed a sigh of relief. “He should be all right,” he said, as they watched the machine out of sight. “Let’s get cracking,” he suggested. “But we shall have to keep near cover in case that snooper comes close.”

  Picking up their baggage they started walking, keeping an eye on the still questing aircraft.

  INTO THE TRAP

  GINGER, NOW WITH BERTIE for company, began a cautious return to the forest behind which lay the airstrip on which the Hastings had landed. It was slow work, for the unknown aircraft, flying low, was still quartering the ground. Ginger was convinced that it was looking for him; or if not for him personally then for possible passengers in the Hastings. At all events, he could think of no other reason for its behaviour. Often they were forced to take cover when it came near. Ginger took the opportunity to rest, for he was tired, and made no secret of it.

  Bertie, who seemed to find it hard to believe that the natives of the district were as dangerous as Ginger had said, was all for pushing on faster. “This Red Indian stuff may be all right for kids, but it’s binding me rigid,” he averred. “Besides, all this walking is l
iable to give you blisters.”

  “You’ll move fast enough if you trip over a lion,” promised Ginger.

  “Lions? What fun. I don’t see any, old boy.”

  “They don’t go out of their way to make themselves conspicuous,” Ginger pointed out. He indicated some anthills. “There were a couple over there yesterday. I nearly walked into ‘em.”

  “They don’t seem to be there now.”

  “They didn’t seem to be there yesterday, either,” returned Ginger sarcastically.

  The lions may have heard their voices, for at this moment the male raised his head so that his eyes just showed above the fringe of tawny grass.

  “See what I mean?” murmured Ginger, cuttingly.

  “Too true... too true. Absolutely,” came back Bertie in a different tone of voice.

  “It may be a relief to you to know that the old gentleman watching us isn’t the biting sort,” said Ginger casually, as they started to make a detour.

  “Are you quite sure of that?” asked Bertie, looking worried as the lion’s head turned slowly to watch them in the same disconcerting manner as on the previous day.

  “That’s how he behaved yesterday.”

  “But he may not have been hungry yesterday—if you see what I mean.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” returned Ginger, lightly. “The great thing is, if you don’t interfere with them they don’t interfere with you. That’s the secret.”

  “Who told you?”

  “I read it in a book.”

  At that moment the lion stood up, his tail, flicking from side to side. The lioness rose behind him, growling horribly deep in her throat.

  “You know, old boy, if you hadn’t told me those cats weren’t vicious I’d have said they were going to have a crack at us,” declared Bertie, anxiously. “What’s the drill? You’re the expert.”

  Ginger stopped. He took a quick look round. There was not a tree of any size within half a mile. “We shall have to stare them out,” he decided. “If we run we’ve had it. Pistols are no use against those brutes.”

  “Stare them out!” exclaimed Bertie desperately. “Is that all you can think of?”

  “Can you think of anything else?”

  “No.”

  At that moment the lion charged, covering the ground with great leaps, his mate following.

  “Stand still,” gasped Ginger. “It’s our only chance.”

  It may have been that the lion’s charge was never more than a half-hearted affair. At thirty yards he began to slow down. At twenty yards he stopped, looking puzzled. The lioness stopped. And there they all stood for perhaps ten seconds, the animals staring, still growling, Ginger and Bertie, pistols ready for use, motionless. Then the lion turned round and began to walk away, from time to time looking back over his shoulder as if not knowing what to make of the situation. Not until they had disappeared from sight behind the anthills did either Ginger or Bertie speak. As far as Ginger was concerned speech would have been difficult.

  “You know, old boy, it’s time you took a refresher course on the behaviour of lions,” stated Bertie, somewhat shakily.

  “It’s time we had more sense than to walk about lion country armed only with a couple of pea-shooters,” answered Ginger bitterly. “We must be crazy.”

  “I suspected that some minutes ago,” replied Bertie. “Talk about butterflies in the stomach! My stomach fell out, butterflies and all. Let’s press on in case the blighters change their minds and come back.”

  With frequent glances behind them they pushed on under a now blazing sun until the edge of the forest ran across their front at a distance of a few hundred yards. So far they had seen no sign of natives, but aware that this might happen at any moment their progress became slower as with ears and eyes alert they moved from cover to cover—usually anthills or stunted growths of acacia. The khaki drill shirts and shorts they both wore blended well with the parched herbage.

  They had one narrow escape—close enough to make them aware of the risks they were taking. They had stopped in a thicket for a moment’s rest and to reconnoitre the ground in front of them. Ginger would have sworn that there was not a soul in sight, and it was only a movement that banished this false impression. A native, who must have been standing dead still against the black background of the forest, suddenly put himself into a position of defence and struck at an unseen object on the ground with his spear. He struck several times, jumping sideways like a cat after each stroke. Then, somewhat surprisingly, he fled into the trees.

  “You see,” said Ginger, deadly serious. “If that chap hadn’t moved we should have walked right into trouble.”

  “What sort of game was he playing, do you think?” asked Bertie. “The stinker seemed to be practising his hop-scotch.”

  “My guess is he was having a poke at a snake. Whatever it was it was so low on the ground I couldn’t see it. It must have been a snake.”

  “Why worry the brute?”

  “Maybe it was worrying him. The mamba is about the only snake that will attack without provocation. He couldn’t have got it or he wouldn’t have bolted; but he must have peeved it, so watch you don’t step on it.”

  “Natives—lions—snakes.... What we need here, old boy, is a tank,” muttered Bertie morosely.

  Ginger raised a finger towards the trees. “That’s our line. It should bring us to the airstrip somewhere near the Hastings. It must still be there. They obviously intend to keep it or they wouldn’t have troubled to camouflage the top surfaces.”

  With infinite caution now they went on, and to Ginger’s relief reached the forest without further incident. The same uncanny silence reigned as when he had left it. They advanced to a tree.

  “This is where I shot the man who tried to spear me,” whispered Ginger. He went on a few paces and stopped. “They must have found the body,” he breathed. “It’s gone. Ssh! What’s that?”

  They looked at each other as from the distance, but approaching, came a murmur of voices. It came from the direction taken by the native who had fled. Without speaking they backed into an isolated patch of palmetto shrubs, stood still and watched.

  The noise drew swiftly nearer, and presently there came into sight, on the open ground that fringed the forest, a line of perhaps a dozen blacks spread out in the form of a crescent. The men walked slowly, each with his spear raised, eyes searching the ground in front.

  For a ghastly moment Ginger thought they had been seen and the men were looking for their tracks. Indeed, he had convinced himself of this when shouts and sudden action told him he was mistaken. A black hurled his spear. Others followed, and the fact that the target was on the ground told Ginger the truth. It was the snake they were after. He couldn’t see it. But when, presently, it struck, he got a brief glimpse of it. The creature missed its mark, but it must have moved like lightning, for a split second later it had its fangs in the calf of another man. The doomed black screamed, and his reaction turned Ginger’s skin gooseflesh, as the saying is.

  He seized the writhing serpent with both hands, tore it from his leg, and in paroxysm of fury tried to kill it with his teeth. Then, hurling it down, he stamped on it. Others went at it with their spears and in a matter of seconds the reptile had been hacked to pieces. The man who had been struck sank down. The rest took no notice of him, but at once engaged in a fierce altercation, presumably discussing the incident.

  To them this may not have been an uncommon event, but Ginger could only stare at the spectacle in horror. Why the man who had been bitten had behaved as he had, even though he knew what the result would be, was beyond his comprehension.

  The noise lasted for about ten minutes, by the end of which time the stricken man was dead. Ginger got the impression that they were merely waiting for him to die, for they now picked up the limp body and bore it away with renewed shouts.

  When they had faded into the distance, Bertie, adjusting his eyeglass, looked at Ginger with a sickly smile. “That was a pretty busi
ness, I must say,” he observed. “If that’s snake hunting give me foxes every time—yes, by Jove. These blighters aren’t human.”

  Ginger could only shake his head helplessly.

  “Let’s press on, old boy,” requested Bertie earnestly. “I’m all for getting airborne again as soon as possible.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” murmured Ginger in a hollow voice.

  “The place stinks,” was Bertie’s final summing up.

  They went on through the giant trees which in places grew so close together that hardly a ray of light found its way through the tangled foliage. Fallen trees had to be climbed, and care taken not to trip in trailing vines. After twenty minutes or so of this the immediate objective, the airstrip showed as a light patch ahead. Ginger located the spot where he had hidden his parachute. It was not there.

  “They must know for certain that Biggles wasn’t alone,” he said.

  The Hastings was just as he had last seen it. They could see nobody with it. In fact, there was no sign of life anywhere on the landing ground.

  Ginger pointed. “That’s the way they took Biggles in the jeep. Let’s carry on that way.”

  “But hold hard, old boy,” protested Bertie. “What about the machine?”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, it seems a pity we can’t do something about it—if you see what I mean.”

  “It’s no use to us. We can’t go and leave Biggles here, even if the engines would start. They may not. It would be interesting to know. But we should look silly if we tested them and they did start. We might as well walk about yelling ‘here we are’ and have done with it.”

  “We might as well have a look inside to see if everything’s all right.”

  Ginger agreed, and after a short dash across the open they found themselves in the cabin. Nothing appeared to have been touched, so, as the day was now well advanced they took the opportunity to sit down in comfort and have a quick meal. They had just finished when the sound of an aircraft coming in took them to a window.