No Rest For Biggles Read online

  “I’ll tell you,” put in Ginger. “Had he been a yard nearer just now I could have grabbed those cutters he was showing you by reaching through the wire. When he comes back you stand here right in the corner, close against the fence. You ask him to show you the cutters to prove he’s got them on him. When he pulls them out I’ll grab his wrist through the wire.”

  “You’ll get yourself shot. Don’t forget he’s got a gun.”

  “So have we got guns. So have you got a gun if it comes to that. Are they ornaments? If we can’t use them in a case like this why bring them at all?”

  “It won’t do to make a noise. There’s a sentry at the gate of this pen, about fifty yards from here. But still,” agreed Biggles, “it’s worth trying. It might work.”

  “It’s got to work,” declared Ginger: “We’ve got to get those cutters or you’ve had it—we’ve all had it.”

  “All right. Suppose we get out. I can’t come alone, leaving the others here to take the rap. What’s the best place to make for? You must have walked over the ground to get here, so you know more about it than I do.”

  “The Hastings is still on the airstrip, at the far end, where you left it.”

  “The engines may be dead. In any case I’m not ready to leave here yet. If we’re going to leave the secret weapon here we might as well have stayed at home. I’d rather have a shot at getting Christophe’s machine.”

  “But you can’t do that cluttered up with a crowd of people,” argued Ginger. “Is Tony Wragg in there with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let him take his party to the Hastings and fly them out. We’ll go for the other machine.”

  “What if the Hastings won’t start up? If the ignition system has been fused, or something of that sort, it’s finished.”

  “Tony will have to take a chance on that. He’ll still be better off than he is here. If he pushes on a mile or two he may see Algy.”

  “Fair enough. The first thing is to get out of this cage. Having done that we’ll deal with fresh problems as they arise. I’ll go and tell the others what’s cooking so they can be standing by. Then I’ll come back. You get under cover.”

  “Watch out for Hollweg. He’s on the other side.”

  “We know that. And he knows we know. We’ll see he doesn’t get in the way.”

  “Okay.”

  Biggles strode off.

  Ginger and Bertie resumed their position under the black fringe of the jungle.

  DESPERATE MEASURES

  STILL WRESTLING in his mind with the extraordinary situation that had arisen, out of nowhere, as the saying is, Ginger squatted in the darkest shadow he could find waiting for what might turn out to be the final showdown with von Stalhein, although at the moment, to serve his own ends, the German was actually trying to make a deal with Biggles. Biggles and von Stalhein working together, on the same side! The thing, he pondered, was not to be believed. Yet it was easy to see how such a situation had come about. The proposition von Stalhein had put forward would obviously suit them both—up to a point. Such an alliance would be formidable. The trouble was, it couldn’t last. The German’s undying hatred for Britain for winning the war would always be dominant. It seemed a pity, for each in his own way respected the other.

  At the moment von Stalhein was playing as dangerous a game as could be imagined, for not only was he scheming to double-cross Christophe but his own partner, Zorotov, as well. That wouldn’t worry him, for there were no rules in the Sinister Service; no fouls.

  On the other hand, Biggles’s position was even more desperate, for should he reject von Stalhein’s proposal it was unlikely he would see another sunset—unless they could do something about it. They might. They held one good card. Von Stalhein didn’t know they were there, although he probably suspected they were in the neighbourhood.

  Bertie broke into Ginger’s reverie. “While we’re waiting, what about getting the drill watertight, old boy?”

  “Okay. This is it,” replied Ginger. “When von Stalhein shows the cutters—”

  “Suppose he doesn’t?”

  “Don’t be awkward. He will, if Biggles asks to see them. That’s reasonable. He wouldn’t expect Biggles to take his word for anything. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t show the cutters, anyway.”

  “All right; don’t get perky. He shows the cutters. Then what?”

  “I shall grab his wrist, pull his arm between the wires and hang on, twisting his wrist to make him let go.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Poke your gun in his ribs and tell him to keep quiet—or else. Watch his spare hand. He’ll go for his gun, too. How long it’ll take him to get it will depend on where it is and in which hand he holds the cutters. Don’t you stand for any nonsense. If this thing flops we’ve had it. Speed is the thing. Speed without noise. We’ve got to get those cutters at the first snatch, no matter what happens. You heard what Biggles said about the sentry.”

  “Biggles has still got his gun so he should be able to deal with him if he gets too inquisitive.”

  “I think we ought to get away with it—provided nothing unexpected turns up.”

  “It usually does.”

  “Are you telling me?”

  “What happens after you’ve got the cutters?” asked Bertie.

  “While you keep von Stalhein covered I shall cut the wires and let Biggles out.”

  “All this with von Stalhein yelling?”

  “If I know anything he’ll keep his mouth shut,” said Ginger confidently. “If he yells he’ll have to explain what he was doing here with wire cutters.”

  “And having got Biggles and the rest of ‘em out we just do a bunk?”

  “I imagine so. That’s up to Biggles.”

  “Which is the best way to go?”

  “Back the way we came. We know there are no snags in that direction. To go the other way might land us in a cul-de-sac or something, and I wouldn’t fancy my chance trying to get through the jungle. But that will be for Biggles to say. You can bet your life he won’t just push off leaving the secret weapon plane here for Christophe to play with.”

  “If the party splits, and Tony Wragg finds the Hastings won’t start up, he’ll be in a jam.”

  “No worse jam than he’s in here.”

  “We mustn’t forget, we’ve got a date with Algy.”

  “I hadn’t forgotten it. We’ll attend to that when the time comes. That light in the sky is the moon on the way. If it comes up before we’re through it’s going to be awkward. The sentry will spot us. I hadn’t realized it was so late.”

  “Here comes Biggles now. He’s got somebody with, him.”

  “It must be General Mander. He’s too big for Tony.”

  Biggles walked into the corner. “All set?”

  “Yes,” answered Ginger. “I reckon we’ve got five more minutes—if von Stalhein arrives on time.”

  “He will. This is General Mander with me. He’s come along to give a hand if necessary, and at the same time give von Stalhein a second line of argument to keep him occupied. The rest of the party is waiting to make a rush if the plan works.”

  “What’s the drill if you get out?”

  “We shall make for the secret plane. Do you know where it’s kept?”

  “Yes. Roughly.”

  “Fine. The rest of the party will make for the Hastings and Tony will fly them to Dakar. That’s enough. Here comes dear Erich.” Biggles moved close against the wire, in the corner.

  Von Stalhein came striding along the inside of the fence. There was no mistaking his slight limp from an old bullet wound. Once he stopped to have a penetrating look behind him, then came on to a halt a yard from where Biggles was standing. Apparently recognizing General Mander he wished him a good evening. “I hope you’ve been able to persuade Bigglesworth to bring his common sense to bear on my suggestion,” he added.

  “I don’t know about that,” returned the General, stiffly.

  “The Genera
l doubts the integrity of your motives,” put in Biggles, in a faintly bantering tone. “He says he’ll believe in your wire cutters when he sees them.”

  “His doubts can soon be settled,” said von Stalhein, putting his right hand in his pocket. At this crucial moment, Ginger, taking a swift look round to make sure that all was clear, saw, to his consternation, a man hurrying along the inside of the fence—following in von Stalhein’s footsteps, in fact. White ducks told him it was a European. He didn’t wait to see who it was. Biggles was already coughing to cover any slight noise. It was now or never.

  Crouching, Ginger moved to the wire. Von Stalhein was returning the cutters to his pocket. Had it been his left pocket Ginger could not have reached it. But it was the right hand pocket. On trifles so small can life or death depend.

  Ginger’s arm went between two strands of wire with the speed of a striking snake. His fingers closed round von Stalhein’s wrist and he jerked it towards him with an his strength. But there he overdid it. Von Stalhein, taken unaware, lost his balance and fell against the wire. Ginger, encountering no resistance, went over backwards. He heard the cutters fall but didn’t see where. Von Stalhein jerked his arm free.

  All this had taken place in less time than it takes to tell, and in silence. Now two voices cut into the scene. Bertie, menacing von Stalhein with his pistol, ordered him to stand still. Almost simultaneously someone called: “Von Stalhein, what are you doing there?” It was the voice of von Stalhein’s partner, Zorotov.

  Ginger, panting with excitement, on his hands and knees, was groping wildly over the ground for the cutters. He heard Zorotov run up... heard von Stalhein say: “I’ve got my sleeve caught on the wire.” But Zorotov was not easily fooled. He obviously trusted his partner so little that he had followed him. Now he realized what was afoot, and gave vent to his rage in a stream of invective. Then, as if realizing that this was serving no useful purpose he yelled at the top of his voice: “Help! The prisoners are escaping!” He started to run towards the camp. “Christophe, von Stalhein is—” He got no farther. Von Stalhein’s pistol blazed and he stumbled into the ground.

  At that moment Ginger found the cutters and the moon soared up above the treetops. Ginger was determined that whatever happened Biggles should have the cutters. Shouting “catch”, he tossed them into the compound. At least, that was the intention. They hit the top strand, glanced off and dropped straight. Biggles and von Stalhein dived for them together. Biggles got them and sprang to the outside fence.

  By this time turmoil had become something like pandemonium, and Ginger hardly knew what he was doing. People were running from all directions. Bertie was telling von Stalhein in no uncertain voice that he’d shoot if he turned his gun in their direction. The sentry, apparently the one of whom they had been warned, came racing down the outside of the prisoners’ pen. A man on the inside ran towards him, crying out something.

  “That’s Hollweg. Stop him, somebody,” rasped Biggles.

  The sentry appeared to lose his head. He stopped, and began shooting indiscriminately, apparently under the impression that he was dealing with a mass escape —as, in fact, he was. He may have thought Hollweg was about to attack him. Anyway, being nearest, and an easy target, the sentry fired, and managed to hit him. Hollweg fell against the wire and finished in a heap on the ground.

  The sentry continued shooting wildly. Bullets zipped and smacked into the forest trees. Through it all, the cutters, in Biggles’s hands, were biting through the wires with crisp snicks.

  Von Stalhein, presumably to support the explanation he would have to make to account for his presence there, now ran towards a group of figures coming from the direction of headquarters, shouting that the prisoners were escaping. Even at that crazy moment Ginger realized that it was to silence Zorotov, who would have told a different story, that von Stalhein had shot him.

  Biggles alone seemed reasonably calm. He snapped a shot at the still approaching sentry. He didn’t hit him, or if he did the man gave no sign of it. But the shot served its purpose. The sentry stopped, and must have decided that the job was too big for him to tackle single-handed, for he turned about and bolted, shouting.

  “Out you go, General,” ordered Biggles. “Follow on the rest of you and make it snappy.”

  That told Ginger that the wires had now been cut. Biggles joined him. “Lead on,” he said tersely. “Let’s get out of this madhouse. You know the way.”

  “You’re going to make straight for the airfield?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on, then.” Ginger started running back down the track up which he and Bertie had come. He could hear the prisoners blundering along behind him. Men inside the fence were still running towards the corner which they had just left, as was natural, for they could not have known what had happened, and would, therefore, make for the spot where all the noise had been. Christophe’s voice rose above others.

  Ginger derived considerable satisfaction from the fact that when they got to the corner they would not be able to get out to the path—unless they went along to the gate where the sentry had been on duty; for Biggles had, of course, cut through the fence on his own—that is, the prison—side of it. Some shots were fired. What at, and by whom, he did not know.

  Nor did he know with what he had collided when, presently, rounding a sharp bend, he went headlong over a creature rushing the other way. It had, no doubt, been disturbed by the din. The creature squealed. Ginger, to whom the business was becoming a nightmare, picked himself up and ran on, gasping. He did not stop until he reached the broader track by the gate. Here there was more room to move, and he waited for Biggles to come up.

  Biggles, who had of course been over the track in the jeep, now knew where he was. “Keep going, everybody,” he ordered. “Let’s get to the airstrip. We’re doing fine. You watch the rear, Bertie.”

  At a steady trot, with Biggles now in front with Ginger, the whole party went on down the track. With the camp in an uproar it could only be a matter of minutes before they were pursued so there was no question of scouting the ground in front. A chance had to be taken that no natives were abroad at that hour, and thus it seemed, for although drums could be heard throbbing in several directions, all some distance away, not a soul was seen on the run to the landing ground. When it came into view, bathed in moonlight, Biggles pulled up.

  “This is where we part company,” he told Tony. “You’ll find my Hastings at the far end of the airstrip. Whether or not the engines will function I just don’t know. You can only try it.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ve got to finish the job I came here to do. With any luck I should soon be following you in the secret plane. If I can’t get it I shall try to burn it.”

  “And walk home?”

  “No. One of my chaps is coming to pick me up.”

  Ginger stepped in. “Listen, Tony. If you can’t get the Hastings off the ground head due north for five miles, find a place to hide and then wait. You’ll find an open place big enough for a machine to get in. Our Halifax has already landed there. Algy Lacey is due to land there on Friday—perhaps earlier, perhaps later. The chances are he’ll be in an Auster, for easy handling. But he’ll get you out somehow.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “We shall hear if you get off,” said Biggles. “Off you go. Time’s precious.”

  “I don’t like the idea of leaving our stolen machine—” began the General.

  “Please don’t waste time arguing, sir,” broke in Biggles. “We’ll either get your machine or see that no one else gets it.”

  “Come on, my lot,” ordered Tony.

  “Good luck,” called Biggles.

  Tony’s party ran on, leaving Biggles with Ginger and Bertie.

  “Now, where’s this other machine?” asked Biggles crisply.

  “Over here.”

  “Right. Go to it. I think I can hear that confounded jeep coming down the track. I’d forgotten about it. It’ll come this w
ay, too. Von Stalhein will guess what I shall make for.”

  Ginger set off at the double, taking a route along the edge of the forest on the opposite side of the landing ground from that taken by Tony’s party. “Did you see von Stalhein shoot Zorotov?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What a ruthless, cold-blooded devil he is.”

  “He had to do it to save his life. Zorotov realized what he was doing and was off to tell Christophe. Now von Stalhein will say it was Zorotov who gave us the wire cutters, and he caught him in the act. How much farther have we to go?”

  “About a hundred yards.”

  “Then we’d better steady the pace and pipe down.”

  As they slowed to a quick walk, with anxious glances in front and behind, the lights of the jeep appeared on the edge of the airstrip, at the end of the track. There it appeared to hesitate, as if those in charge were undecided which direction to take; but when the engines of the Hastings started up with a roar it raced, not towards the Hastings as Ginger expected, but diagonally across the airfield towards the hangar of the secret plane.

  “They’re going to see we don’t get both machines,” said Biggles.

  “The Hastings is all right, anyway; that’s one good thing,” remarked Ginger.

  “So far—but for how long?” muttered Biggles. “The question is, does the secret weapon function from the ground as well as in the air? That’s something I don’t know. If it does they’ll cut the Hastings’ engines again.” He set off at a run along the edge of the forest, only to pull up when the Hastings’ engines bellowed as it taxied into position for the take-off. “Good!” he exclaimed. “They’re away.”

  The jeep raced on to its objective. Men ran to meet it.

  “We’d better rest on our oars a minute. We can’t tackle that lot, old boy,” opined Bertie.

  Nobody answered. What Bertie had said was so obviously true that Biggles did not dispute it. It was clearly not the moment to try to get possession of the aircraft.

  The Hastings roared into the air and disappeared in the night sky.

  Even while Biggles and Ginger were congratulating themselves on this the secret machine came rumbling out of its lair, and taxi-ing out on to the airstrip took off in the wake of the Hastings.