Biggles and the Black Peril Read online

  He heard the horse pulled up as its rider reached the track. A hail rang through the forest, and he started as another voice answered from somewhere desperately close; it seemed to come from the front end of the stationary train, and he broke into a perspiration when he realized that someone must have been there all the time. The two men began talking, and although he could not understand the conversation, it seemed to Biggles that the rider was reprimanding the other for failure to do something. They were still talking when an engine whistled in the distance, and he stiffened as a new possibility struck him. He hoped that the approaching train would pass them on the other set of rails, but whether it did or did not, it was utterly impossible for him to abandon his hiding place now without being seen. His heart sank as he heard the train slowing down, but he was quite unprepared for what followed. There was a frightful crash, and his head struck the back of the truck with a force that nearly dislocated his neck. The engine had evidently arrived to pick up the trucks, and at the terrifying prospect of being carried to an unknown and possibly distant destination, he nearly risked everything by jumping clear and making a dash for the forest. Had he been alone he would certainly have done so, but he could not leave Ginger, nor could he make his plan known to him without attracting the attention of the two men, who were still talking not a dozen yards away.

  He was still feverishly turning the matter over in his mind when the truck in which he lay began to move, slowly, but with ever increasing speed, yet all he could do was to lie still and hope for the best. They had travelled about half a mile, as near as he could judge, when it began to slow down again; he could stand the strain no longer.

  'Ginger,' he said crisply, 'are you there, Ginger?'

  A sudden anxiety assailed him as no answering call came from the next truck. 'Ginger,' he said again, more loudly.

  Still there was no reply.

  Swiftly he thrust aside the logs and risked a peep over the edge of the truck; but he was back on the floor again instantly, knowing only too well what had happened. There were no more trucks behind him; he was in the end one. The train must have been uncoupled at the very truck into which he had climbed; the engine had picked up one half of the train and left the rest behind. It had taken him with it and left Ginger back on the siding in the forest. What was even more unnerving was the fact that the train had pulled in to what seemed to be the very middle of the seaplane station. He had only had time for a brief glimpse, yet all around him as far as he could see were wooden buildings, like a vast lumber camp.

  He lay quite still and tried to work the thing out in his mind; he had been anxious to gain a closer view of the secret aerodrome, but this was certainly a good deal closer than he liked. Somehow or other he would have to get clear again as soon as possible and return to the tree with the broken branch, and he thanked his lucky star that he had had the foresight to make an arrangement against such an emergency. Ginger, he knew, would work his way back to it at the first opportunity.

  For a long time he lay quite still while he could hear people moving about, sometimes passing within a yard of him as they walked along the track. Then came a voice that made his skin tingle; there was no mistaking it. It was the voice of Blackbeard, and to his amazement he spoke in English.

  'Hullo, Darton, what are you doing back here?' he said.

  'You might well ask,' was the reply, accompanied by the slamming of a door.

  Biggles quivered again, for it was the voice of his late gaoler in the Northumbrian house.

  'Yes, it was that swine of an Englishman, Biggles-more, or whatever his name is,' went on the man, whose name was evidently Darton. 'He caused a nice old mess – I suppose you've heard about it?'

  'I heard that you let him get away and the Boss had to do some quick dunking – had to abandon two of our bases over the other side.'

  'Let him get away! I like that. Some kid set the whole works on fire. The Boss has sent me back here for punishment. I wasn't to know that the fellow had his pals with him.'

  'Pals did you say?'

  Yes, a couple of them at least; one of 'em's only a kid. The little swine nearly broke my legs with a cudgel. If I ever lay hands on him I'll wring his blamed neck like a rabbit's.' From the tone of his voice there was little doubt but that he meant what he said.

  'Well, it was a bad business,' went on Blackbeard, 'a lot of good work undone. How did you get here?'

  'Flew back in number fourteen the night before last. I wanted to stay in England to find this fellow Bigglesmore, but the Boss wouldn't let me; I'd have settled for his hash once and for all.'

  'You'd have been wasting your time looking for him in England.'

  'How's that?'

  'He's over here.'

  'Who told you that?'

  'Nobody. I saw him myself, yesterday, at Holtenau.'

  'Were you drunk?'

  'No,' replied Blackbeard curtly, 'and kindly refrain from being unpleasant or I shall tell you nothing more.'

  'Sorry, go on, what did you do? Sock him—?'

  'No, but I—'

  The crash of buffers, as the train began to move again, cut off the rest of the conversation, much to Biggles' disgust, but by the merest fluke he had gathered some very useful information. It was as well to know that there were at least two men in the camp who could recognize him – Blackbeard, and Darton, his late captor.

  The train pulled up again with a jerk that shook every tooth in Biggles' head. There was a hiss of escaping steam, voices calling to each other, and then silence. The late afternoon wore on and it began to grow dark. He was just beginning to hope that the train had been abandoned for the rest of the day and was thinking of risking a peep, when the sound of returning voices reached his ears. Someone began to give orders, the words being punctuated every now and then by the crash of timber. Then, without the slightest warning, the truck in which he was lying was tilted over, and he was flung headlong out. Before he could make the slightest effort to save himself, he was sliding, slipping and rolling down an apparently bottomless pit. Instinctively he flung up his arms to protect his face, but a smashing blow struck him on the head, and he knew no more.

  Chapter 9

  Ginger Strikes

  When he recovered consciousness it was quite dark, and it took him some minutes to remember what had happened and where he was. The fall had been so sudden that there had been no time to see anything, and the crack he received on the head from one of the logs – for he had no doubt as to what had put him out of action – had settled any immediate anxiety on the point. He sat up, feeling rather giddy, and felt his head tenderly, but he was relieved to find that the injury was not so severe as he had expected, although a nasty lump under a sticky cake of hair told him that the skin of his scalp had been broken.

  He looked around in the dim starlight, and saw that he had been tipped out with the logs into a deep gully, which was straddled by a trestle bridge. Luckily he had almost rolled under the bridge, which may have accounted for his not having been seen by the men operating the trucks. For what purpose the logs were required, or what lay at the bottom of the gully, he could not see, nor did he waste time trying to find out. He had learned quite a lot, not so much as he had hoped, but sufficient to report to the authorities in England, who would no doubt put their specially-trained sleuths on the track. His immediate desire now was to get back to the Vandal with the least possible delay, and put the North Sea between him and Blackbeard.

  His watch had been smashed by the fall and he had no idea of the time, but he felt that it must be somewhere about midnight; he did not think it could be after that hour. Where was Ginger? The thought worried him a good deal, although he tried to thrust the matter aside until he was in a position to deal with it. He would get back as quickly as possible to the tree with the broken branch; if Ginger was not there then he would go on to the Vandal; that he would find him at one of the two places he felt sure.

  The business of getting back up to the railway line was no easy ma
tter. Hundreds of logs lay loosely about, just as they had fallen, and at every step one or more would become detached and go crashing down to the bottom of the gully. Once he started a whole ava-lanche, and was nearly carried down with it, but he saved himself just in time; somewhere, not far away, a hound started baying – an unpleasant sound. The noise he made climbing up to the bridge seemed to occasion no alarm, however, and he came to the conclusion that the logs often fell of their own accord, and the crash of tumbling timbers was a common sound. At last he reached the top of the pile and with some difficulty dragged himself up a lattice-work trestle to the bridge. A quick glance up and down showed that it was deserted, but a number of lights in the distance revealed the position of the camp. He also noticed something else, something that filled him with dismay. In the opposite direction the line ran out on to a small promontory, so it was no good going that way. What was even worse, the first buildings of the camp seemed to begin at the far end of the bridge on which he stood, so that he would have to pass through them in order to escape. There was no alter-native, so he started off, making as little noise as possible, eyes probing the darkness ahead, keeping a keen lookout for sentries.

  He came to a place where the line swung round to the right and the whole waterfront lay open to his view in the starlight. Twelve of the giant bombers were now moored to iron buoys, in two lines. Several smaller machines were moored about them, some close to the hangars and some out on the open water. He saw the machine in which Blackbeard had flown to Holtenau moored close to a wharf at the far end of the line of hangars. Ginger had described it exactly. Automatically, with the precision of long experience in reconnaissance, Biggles made a mental note of everything he could see, hangars, workshops, test benches, and the like, and then, satisfied with his inspection and the information he had gained, he proceeded towards the camp. As he approached it he saw at once that he was faced with a very difficult proposition, for the camp radiated fanwise, from the very end of the railway, and it was impossible to reach the forest beyond without going through it. If people were still moving about, it would be impossible to avoid being seen. There was no cover of which he could take advantage, anywhere along the track. Still, he could not remain where he was, for sooner or later somebody would certainly come along and see him, and there was no point in going back. If he went forward he could adopt one or two methods of procedure. He could either walk straight down the middle of the track trusting that if he was seen he would be taken for an employee, or he could creep from house to house, and avoid meeting anyone face to face. If he adopted the latter course, and was seen, then his very actions themselves would be sufficient to arouse suspicion. Still walking on, he decided to compromise between the two; he would walk straight down the track, but would turn aside if he saw anyone coming. If he was challenged he would simply have to make a bolt for the forest.

  He reached the first buildings without seeing a soul, but a moment later two men stepped out of a doorway not five yards away; there was no time to turn aside, so he walked straight on, passing so close to the men that he could have touched them. As far as he could gather they took not the slightest notice of him, although he did not turn round after he had passed them. Then a party of six or seven crossed an area of light in front of an open window about fifty yards ahead; they appeared to be coming in his direction, so he turned sharply to the right into a convenient passage between the houses, and then again to the left in order to maintain his general direction towards the forest.

  He had almost reached it – he was, in fact, actually passing the last block of buildings – when three men, in earnest conversation, appeared round a corner in front of him. One voice could be heard above the others; it was Blackbeard's. To pass without being seen was an utter impossibility, and there was no side turning in which he could conceal himself. The realisation of these two facts flashed through his head in a split second. Some of the houses had rough porches built around the doors, and without the slightest hesitation he stepped into the first one he reached. It was quite a shallow affair, not more than a couple of feet deep, and provided scanty shelter, but he pressed himself against the dark door in order to make the best of it. Before he could take any steps to prevent it, the door, which had evidently not been closed, swung inwards, and he pitched headfirst inside. He was on his feet in an instant, hands raised to repel the attack which he felt sure must follow, but nothing happened. The room was in darkness except for the faint reflected light that came from outside, and he just had time to swing the door in place before Black-beard and his companions reached it. Stone cold with the nervous tension of the moment, he stood stock still and waited for them to pass; but they did not pass. On reaching the door they stopped, and it was instantly apparent that one of them at least was about to enter. He knew this and acted with the speed of the experienced air fighter.

  The three men were now actually standing in the doorway, talking in tones which suggested a mild argument; at any instant they might enter, so he took a couple of paces into the room and peered around. It was furnished as an office. A large desk, with a shaded electric light over it, occupied the centre; filing cabinets took up most of the walls, except that part which was taken up by the window overlooking the street. Against the far wall, however, there was one of those tall cupboards used for storing stationery. He reached it in a couple of paces and swung the door open. A few large envelopes lay on the floor; higher up there was a shelf with a number of small boxes on it; between the shelf and the floor there was just sufficient room for a man to stand upright and close the door behind him, provided he was slim. All this he saw at a glance, and it was the work of a moment to step inside and pull the door to; there was no time to latch it, for even as he pulled the door towards him the outside door was thrown open. An electric switch clicked and the room was flooded with light. Still arguing, in a language Biggles did not under-stand, the three men walked into the room. Black-beard, whose office it seemed to be judging by his actions, threw his cap into a corner, and flinging himself into the largest chair, rested his feet on the desk. He took a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end and spat it across the room. Of the other two men, one was Darton; the third was a stranger, but evidently a pilot for he carried a flying cap in his hand. Biggles could just see this through the narrow chink of the unlatched door.

  'You've got the advantage of me;' grumbled Darton presently, speaking in English for the first time; 'I can't keep pace with this damn lingo of yours. I told the Boss it was no use sending me over here; what does he think I am going to do I should like to know if I don't understand half what people say to me?'

  'You'll know all in good time if I know anything about the Boss,' Blackbeard told him coolly. "You're lucky to get off as lightly as you have, after making the mess you made of things, over there.'

  'I didn't make any mess I tell you!' cried Darton indignantly. 'How was I to know Biggleston – or whatever his name is – had a gang working with him.' He cursed luridly. 'If I could get my hands on that smug faced—'

  He broke off short and remained with his mouth open, an expression of inane surprise in his eyes. The reason was not hard to find. Across the room not three yards away, the man he was speaking about stood facing him.

  Just how it happened Biggles never knew. Whether he accidentally touched the door with his coat or sleeve, or whether a draught caught it, he could not say; nor did he bother to inquire into such insignificant details. The only thing that mattered was that the door of the cupboard, either with his assistance or on its own volition, had swung open, slowly, but just too fast for him to prevent it. Darton, who was standing opposite, saw the movement and glanced up; the expression on his face brought the others round.

  Biggles was the first to move. Further effort at concealment would have been merely childish, and unfortunately the three men were between him and the door. He stepped out of the cupboard into the room.

  'Well,' he said, 'here we are again.'

  Blackbeard was the o
nly one who did not move, but a slow smile spread over his face. Darton jumped to the door and swung round, revolver in hand. The third man, after a swift glance at the others, blocked the gangway between the desk and the wall. For per-haps thirty seconds the picture remained unchanged.

  'I wonder if you could oblige me with a cigarette?' Biggles asked Blackbeard quietly. 'I lost my case you know.'

  'With the greatest of pleasure,' replied Blackbeard, offering him his cigarette case. 'I must say you have a most disconcerting habit of turning up at unexpected places. I hope you are not going to tell me that you came here by accident?'

  'Yes, curious to relate, that would be no more than the sober truth – at least, as far as my method of entry into this place is concerned. I won't strain your credulity by going into details though.'

  'No, it would hardly be worth the effort,' Black-beard assured him easily. 'The chief thing is, you are here, and that is really all we are concerned with. This time I imagine our mutual friend Darton will take more effective measures to ensure that you do not leave us so abruptly as you did on the last occasion. As you may well imagine, he is feeling more than a little annoyed about the way you went off, in England, without so much as saying good-bye.'