Biggles In Africa Read online

  Algy made no reply; he had rolled on to the floor and lay rigid. Only his eyes moved and showed that he was still conscious.

  Biggles felt his strength ebbing fast. For a minute he fought against the action of the toxin as he had never fought before, but it was in vain. He made a stupendous effort to get to the table where the automatics lay, but it was beyond his strength, and he collapsed backwards across the low camp bed.

  Lying thus, on the point of unconsciousness, he saw Sarda reappear, and, in a dreamy, subconscious way, saw that he carried a can of petrol in his hand. The half-caste unscrewed the cap and then proceeded to splash the contents of the can on the flimsy walls of the building. When it was empty he tossed it aside and took out a box of matches. With a match between his fingers he turned to Biggles. ‘You think you’re damn smart,’ he sneered. ‘But you ain’t smart enough. Not likely.’ He struck the match. ‘Presently I’m going to make out report how English gents like fools made big camp fire in the rest-house and set the whole place afire. Got burnt to death. Good story—huh? And no one to say no. Only me here to see it so no one calls me a liar. Now I go outside and hark at you frizzling.’ With that he struck the match and tossed it against the petrol-soaked wall. With a dull, terrifying roar a sheet of flame leapt upwards.

  CHAPTER VII

  GINGER COMES HOME

  FOR Ginger the long night passed slowly. He saw no more of the lion. One by one the fires he had started died down and went out, and in spite of his predicament the desire for sleep became almost irresistible: more than once he caught himself nodding. Yet sleep he dare not, for fear he fell off his perch and injured himself, for he had no means of tying himself to the branches between which he sat astride.

  It was, therefore, with profound relief that he saw the stars begin to pale, and the faint flush of dawn steal upward from the eastern horizon. A shaft of light shot upwards, another, and another, and in spite of his position he found heart to admire the glory of the African sunrise.

  He waited no longer. A searching scrutiny of the landscape revealed nothing more alarming than a small herd of giraffes peacefully grazing, their ungainly legs outstretched, a mile or two to the south, so he prepared to evacuate his haven of refuge. Before he did so, however, he glanced fearfully at the edge of the forest, still dark and forbidding, not more than a few hundred yards away. His eyes fell on something and he started, an expression of incredulity crossing his face. At the risk of falling, he leaned forward and stared as if he could not believe his eyes, for standing amongst the trees on the edge of the forest, close to a tumble-down shack, was an aeroplane. It was a Puss Moth, painted black.

  A short, sharp scuffle, in which he left some of the skin of the palms of his hands on the rough bark of the tree, and he was on the ground, running towards his new hope of deliverance. He slowed down as he neared it, and advanced towards the but cautiously, automatic at the ready. No sound came from inside, so very quietly he opened the door and peeped in. The but was empty. That is to say, it contained no human occupant, although there were other things which at first made his eyes go round with wonder.

  Stacked on one side was a high pile of petrol-cans, which a swift investigation showed were full. There was also a spare propeller, two under-carriage wheels, some fabric, and tins of dope. On a shelf were some tins of bully beef, biscuits, and condensed milk. ‘An emergency repair depot, eh?’ he breathed, as he took in all these things with a sweeping glance. ‘My goodness! This is a bigger thing than we thought, and no mistake.’

  There was nothing else of interest, so he went out, closing the door behind him, and hurried towards the Puss. The tanks, he found, were more than half full, which was far more than he would need for the short run to Insula, so he did not stop to fill them up, for he was afraid that some one might arrive at any moment. Inside five minutes he had started the engine and had taxied out to the spot from which the Dragon had taken off. Watching carefully ahead for obstacles, he opened the throttle, and with fierce exultation in his heart, swept over the burnt patches of his fires into the air.

  But his troubles were not yet over, for before many minutes had passed he detected a certain roughness in the engine, and a glance at the rev-counter confirmed what his ears had told him. The needle was flickering unpleasantly, and as he watched it he saw it sink slowly backwards. The trouble, whatever it was, was not very bad, but once trouble starts in an aero engine it usually develops quickly if it is allowed to run on, and this case was no exception, for although he throttled back to as near stalling point as he dare risk, the rev-counter dropped steadily, while the ever-rising thermometer warned him that if he went on much longer the whole thing might seize up.

  ‘If I can only get back to the aerodrome I don’t mind,’ he thought desperately, as he throttled right back for a few seconds and dipped his nose in the hope of cooling the engine. But it was not to be. The noise grew steadily worse, and the vibration became alarming. He gave a grunt of satisfaction as his anxiously questing eyes picked out a dried-up waterhole that he had marked down on an earlier flight ; it was not more than three or four miles from Insula, and looking ahead he could just see the small clump of trees that hid the bungalow.

  At that moment there was a sharp explosion in the engine and a little cloud of black smoke swirled away aft. ‘It’s no use,’ he told himself bitterly as he throttled right back and examined the ground swiftly for a landing-place, for he had very little altitude.

  The country was still fairly open, sun-baked earth for the most part covered with the usual coarse grass, and here and there stunted trees, alone and in little groups. There were also an unpleasant number of high, conical mounds which he knew were ant-hills, and it was these that worried him most. However, he chose the most open place he could see within gliding distance, and with teeth clenched he side-slipped down to land, for the place he had chosen was almost immediately below him. The wheels touched, bumped, and bumped again, and then the whole machine quivered as it ran over the rough surface. He pressed on the rudder with his left foot as a low group of ant-hills appeared directly in his path; the machine swerved sickeningly, and for a moment he thought his under-carriage must collapse, but it stood up to the strain, and the machine came to rest in a little fold in the ground.

  ‘Well, I’m down, anyway,’ he muttered, expressing the relief that most pilots would have experienced in similar circumstances; and his relief was intensified by the knowledge that the machine was likely to prove their only link with civilization. He switched off the petrol and ignition and then jumped to the ground. There was nothing more he could do.

  He did not like the idea of leaving the machine out in the sun, but there was no help for it; all he could do was to hurry to the aerodrome and advise the others of how things stood. Between them they might be able to effect the necessary repairs and get the machine into the hangar at Insula before the sun reached its zenith. Accordingly, he took a last look round to make sure there were no wild animals about, and then set off at a steady trot in the direction of the aerodrome.

  A trifle more than half an hour later, hot and dishevelled, he arrived at the aerodrome, and after a glance at the empty hangar and the bungalow, he turned his steps towards the rest-house. He was still several yards away when he was amazed to hear Sarda’s voice speaking, although he could not catch the words. Wondering what was going on, he hurried forward just in time to catch Sarda’s last sentence when he informed Biggles that he was going outside to ‘hark at them frizzling’.

  Ginger heard the whoof of the petrol as it flamed up, and then Sarda appeared in the doorway.

  Considering that the half-caste was taken completely unawares, he acted with commendable promptitude. His right hand flew to his shirt. Ginger’s hand flashed to his pocket. Both weapons came out together. There was a flash of steel as the knife sped through the air. Simultaneously, Ginger’s gun roared. A sharp stinging pain in the cheek made him jerk his head convulsively, but he recovered himself to see the half-caste s
tumble, clutching at his chest. For a moment or two he swayed, coughing; then his legs seemed to collapse and he pitched forward on to his face.

  In a kind of daze Ginger leapt over the fallen body and tore into the rest-house, trying to fight off with his arms the heat that seemed to be blistering his skin. He saw Biggles lying across his bed and Algy stretched out on the floor. At the same time he was also subconsciously aware of a snake that was threshing about on the table on to which it had evidently fallen from the blazing roof. Stooping, he seized Algy, who was the nearer, by the collar, and dragged him outside. Then he dashed back to Biggles. The heat was appalling, and his nostrils were filled with the stench of singeing hair and clothes. Seeming to move in a ghastly nightmare from which he could not awaken, he dragged his two unconscious comrades farther out on to the aerodrome, and then made a final sally into the flames for the kit-bags. He saw the rifle and the two automatics lying on the table, and paused for a moment to fling them through the doorway before snatching up the kit-bags and leaping clear. He would have liked to save some of their stores, but it was out of the question, so he ran towards Sarda, who was still lying near the doorway where he had fallen. But before he could reach him there was a rending, tearing crash, and the whole building collapsed in a cloud of flying sparks, burying the half-caste under the debris. Another moment and Ginger, too, would have been caught in the blazing ruin; as it was, he only just managed to leap back in time.

  He saw that the sky had turned a peculiar shade of purple, and wondered vaguely why. His face was still smarting and he raised his hand to it to see what was the matter. It felt wet and sticky, and unaccountably his legs began to tremble. ‘I’m going to faint,’ he thought, ‘but I won’t... I won’t. Water... I must get water.’

  Unsteadily he began to run towards the bungalow. The movement saved him and the crisis passed, and by the time he reached the building he felt better, although his actions still seemed to be unnatural and automatic. He found a pail of water in the kitchen and drank deeply, using his cupped hands. He also splashed some of the water over his face.

  Then he snatched up the bucket and ran back to where the others lay. They looked ghastly, and a dreadful fear that they were dead set him trembling again.

  ‘Hi, Biggles,’ he croaked, tipping some of the water over the white face. Then he treated Algy in the same way. But it was a good five minutes before he could get any response. Then Biggles moaned feebly and opened his eyes. Slowly, from vague wonderment, recognition crept into them.

  ‘Hello,’ he said with a foolish smile. ‘Where the dickens have you sprung from?’

  Ginger tried to speak, but the sky seemed to be going dark again. It was nearly black, and the sun a great white ball that bounced about on it. ‘I—I—’ he faltered, but he could get no farther. His knees crumpled under him and he flopped down like a coat falling from a peg.

  CHAPTER VIII

  SAVAGES

  WHEN he opened his eyes again he was lying in the shade inside the hangar. Biggles, in his shirt sleeves, was dabbing his face with a wet rag, while Algy, still looking very groggy, was watching the proceedings.

  ‘Feeling better ?’ grinned Biggles.

  Ginger struggled into a sitting position, his hand going to his face at the same time. ‘What’s all this?’ he asked as his fingers came in contact with a rough bandage that had been bound round his head.

  ‘We had to tie your face up,’ Biggles told him. ‘Somehow or other you’ve managed to cut it pretty badly; it isn’t deep, but you’ve bled quite a bit.’

  ‘Sarda’s knife did it,’ announced Ginger briefly.

  Biggles whistled. ‘My gosh! You must have had a pretty close squeak.’

  ‘Closish,’ admitted Ginger.

  ‘Where did Sarda go?’

  ‘Go?’

  ‘Yes, where is he now? There isn’t a sign of him.’

  Ginger scrambled to his feet, walked unsteadily to the door of the hangar and pointed to the smoking remains of the rest-house. ‘He’s under there,’ he said quietly.

  Biggles stared at him. ‘How did it happen?’ he asked.

  ‘I shot him,’ muttered Ginger. ‘Not intentionally, though. We met at the door. He went for his knife and I pulled my gun, intending to tell him to put his hands up; but before I could speak he flung the knife at me and somehow or other the gun went off. I remember feeling the knife whizz past my cheek, and—well, I don’t know quite what happened after that, except that I managed to drag you out and was just going to haul Sarda clear when the whole place collapsed on top of him.’

  There was silence for a few moments.

  ‘Well, no one can say that he hasn’t got his deserts,’ observed Biggles philosophically. ‘If ever there was a cold-blooded murderer he was one. It may sound callous, but I’m no hypocrite, and I don’t mind telling you that I feel happier with him out of the way. What with losing the Dragon and all our stores we are in a bad enough mess without him taking pot shots at us. And now, if you’re feeling well enough to talk, you might tell us what happened in here last night. In fact, there are a lot of things I should like to hear, such as where you’ve been and how you got back here so providentially. Another five minutes and all you’d have found of us would have been cinders.’

  Briefly, but omitting nothing of importance, Ginger described the events from the time Leroux made his entry into the hangar.

  ‘The sooner we get out to that Puss the better,’ declared Biggles, when he had finished. ‘With it we’ve got a good chance to put up a show; without it we’re sunk. How far away is it, do you think?’

  ‘I should say about three miles.’

  ‘That’s three-quarters of an hour’s walk. Do you feel fit enough to travel?’

  ‘Me! I’m as right as rain,’ answered Ginger. ‘But what about you and Algy? Neither of you look in what one might call the pink of condition.’

  ‘I think we’re pretty well all right,’ answered Biggles. ‘At least, I am, except for a sort of stiffness in the joints. How about you, Algy?’

  ‘Same as you,’ replied Algy quickly. ‘A bit stiff and a headache, that’s all. I wonder what that dope was Sarda gave us.’

  ‘Never mind about that; I’m glad it was only a drug and not poison. Let’s muster up our things and get away. It seems reasonable to suppose that Leroux will soon be looking for his Puss, and we’ve got to get to it first. It’s fairly clear now to see what happened. After he left here yesterday morning he didn’t go back to Karuli, or whatever Sarda called his headquarters, but dropped down at that secret landing-ground of his either because his engine was giving trouble or because he had resolved to steal our machine. I rather suspect it was on account of his engine, though, because, having given Sarda the dope to put us out of action—that was what was in the envelope he gave him, I expect—he could have come back here today without any risk. He may have been in a hurry to get to Karuli, and when his engine started to conk he decided to go down and come back for our machine.’

  ‘It was a tidy step if he came on foot,’ put in Ginger.

  ‘Possibly he had a horse. I should say that that telephone of Sarda’s goes to the aerodrome where you found the Puss, or at least passes through it. Did you notice a receiver in the hut, Ginger?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, but I wasn’t there many seconds and I might easily have overlooked it.’

  ‘I was thinking that perhaps Leroux got into touch with his headquarters at Karuli from there. No matter; he got back here somehow, as we know to our cost. But we’d better not stay here talking. Let’s get some food and water from the bungalow and make a bee-line for the Puss. With three automatics and a rifle we ought to be able to give a good account of ourselves if any one starts any rough stuff.’

  ‘What are you going to do with the machine?’ Algy asked Biggles, as they all walked to where their kit-bags still lay on the aerodrome.

  ‘Put the engine right if we can and fly it back here. Then, after we’ve had a rest, we’ll either go to
Malakal and report what has happened, or else go and have a look for this plantation that we’ve heard so much about. I can’t quite make up my mind which is the best course, but we’ll talk more about that when we’ve got the machine. We’d better park these in the bungalow for the time being,’ Biggles added, as they picked up their kit-bags.

  ‘It’s not much use trying to do anything about—that,’ he concluded, nodding towards the still smouldering ruins of the rest-house. ‘It will be hours before those ashes have cooled down.’

  They hurried on to the bungalow, put their kit in the living-room, and after closing the doors and windows, they set off in the direction of the abandoned aeroplane.

  ‘Suppose the telephone rings?’ asked Ginger as they hurried along.

  ‘I thought of that,’ nodded Biggles. ‘In fact, I seriously considered putting a call through, but decided that it would be better left alone. The silence will get the people at the other end guessing, whereas if we try to use it we might easily slip up, which would tell them that Sarda’s scheme has misfired, and that we are in charge of the situation here. It’s another thing we shall have to think about when we get back. For the present, I shan’t have any peace until we’ve got that machine in safe custody.’

  They had no difficulty in finding the Puss Moth, nor did they encounter trouble of any sort on the way. For this they were all thankful, for what with nervous reaction after what they had been through, sheer weariness, and the heat of the sun, they were in no case to meet adversity with their customary optimism.

  ‘Well, here she is,’ observed Biggles, as he opened the cabin door. ‘It’s Harry Marton’s machine, there’s no doubt about that. Look!’ He pointed to the fabric under the exhaust pipe where the black paint had been rather carelessly applied, with the result that the original red dope showed through it as a dull maroon tint. ‘Did you form any opinion as to what was wrong with the engine, Ginger?’