Biggles Flies Again Part 9

For a moment the airmen could only stand and stare. "Well--er-I'm not quite sure,"

blurted out Biggles. "We were flying-had a forced landing. We came down on a lake, or river, but drifted out of it and lost ourselves."

"The lake is just here, through the trees-so is my bungalow. The plantation is a bit lower down. I've just been down there, so I suppose that is why I didn't hear you land.

My boy said something about an aeroplane in the fog, but I didn't believe him. By the way, where's your machine?"

"Just over here," replied Biggles, in a dazed voice, "but there's a very nasty pa.s.senger on board at the moment." "What do you mean?"

"A snake of enormous dimensions has taken up its quarters behind the pilot's seat."

"A snake? Let's go and look," said the stranger, taking the torch from Biggles's hand.

The airmen followed him to the machine. He held the torch aloft and a chuckle came from his throat.

"Why, it's Penelope!" he said, stepping forward and fondling the snake's flat head affectionately. "What are you doing here, old girl? She's my pet python," he explained, "

gentle as a kitten. She roosts in the bungalow; I have just let her out for her evening ramble. Come on; let's go and get a drink-come on, Penelope."

CHAPTER I 0.

THREE WEEKS.

THE SUN was setting in a blaze of scarlet and gold over the Indian Ocean as Biggles slowly made his way through the heterogeneous throng of humanity in the Delhi Road, Karachi, towards the Orient Hotel, where he had left Algy, who, reposing near a punkah with an iced drink at his elbow, had declined Biggles's invitation to take a look round the town. Undeterred, Biggles had wended his way alone from street to street and was now returning to the Orient for dinner.

At the corner of Temple Square, with his eyes on a street carpetseller, rather than on his line of march, he collided violently with a slim, white-clad European who was coming in the opposite direction. The apology that rose automatically to his lips remained unuttered as he found himself staring into a rather tired face, upon which flashed a smile of instant recognition.

"Well; by the sacred turnbuckle of Saint Patrick, if it isn't Pat O'Neilson! Hallo, Pat !"

"Hullo, Biggles! what brings you to this part of the world; I heard you'd left the Service?"

Biggles nodded. "I have," he said. "I no longer aviate aircraft decorated with the red-white-and-blue target.

At the moment I'm beetling towards England, home and beauty in a rather dilapidated amphibian."

"Good heavens ! Then it was you mixed up in that affair with Li Chi at Rangoon; there's been a queer tale going round about an aircraft helping him out, and I heard the name Bigglesworth mentioned as the pilot."

"I don't know how it's leaked out, but it's true enough," admitted Biggles. "It was I, and young Algy Lacey-you remember Algy? He's with me now. What are you doing here?

You're not looking too good if I may say so."

A shadow flickered across the tired blue eyes of the Irishman, eyes that had once probed the skies of France from the c.o.c.kpit of an R.A.F. Spitfire. "What about a spot of hospitality?" he suggested.

Biggles smiled. "Lead on Macduff. What's the trouble, Pat?" he continued when they had settled themselves in a quiet corner. "You look hara.s.sed."

The other shrugged his shoulders. "I am," he admitted. "We all are."

"Who's we?"

0' Neilson dropped his voice to a whisper. "Intelligence."

Biggles pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. "So that's it," he muttered. "I might have guessed. Weren't you posted to H.Q. Intelligence in France after you were busted up by that Messerschmitt near Estree?"

O'Neilson nodded. "Sure," he said softly; "that was the way of ut, and here I am, still at ut."

"Ticklish job out here nowadays, I should think."

"It is, since the British bulldog lost his teeth or forgot how to bite," muttered O'Neilson bitterly. "But it's the Great White Bear that worries us."

"Russia?"

O'Neilson flashed a swift, uneasy glance around that remained fixed on a short, swarthy, heavily moustached man who was just entering the saloon. Almost imperceptibly the Irishman turned his chair until his back was towards the newcomer. "Speak of the devil !

" he breathed.

"Who's the enemy?" asked Biggles softly.

"He's the fly in the ointment, the thorn in the flesh; in other words, the Big Noise behind the Hammer and Sickle in this part of the world. We call him Ivan Nikitoff, because we think that's his real name, but he has many others."

"But I thought you people were experts at removing splinters," protested Biggles.

O'Neilson grimaced. "Used to be. It isn't so easy now, with a crowd in the operating theatre, so to speak, watching every move. That man is Russia's prize piece of furniture in the East. He holds the strings between Baghdad and Bombay, and when he pulls 'em things buzz. We've got a big show on at the moment over this Persian business, and he's the man who's going to spike our guns-if he can. Normally his headquarters are in Teheran, and his presence here means that he's on the job. And if you want to know the real cause of the furrow on my brow, well, he's it."

"Is that so?" mused Biggles reflectively. "Why not remove him to a safe place until it's all over?"

"How?"

"Don't ask me-that's your job. I should take him for a ride, like they do in America."

O'Neilson smiled wanly. "As crude as ever, I see. Can you see him stepping into an R.A.

F. machine, or accepting our invitation to take a sea-cruise in one of our battleships?" he said. "Still, it would be worth something to have him out of the way."

"How much, I wonder?" said Biggles softly.

O'Neilson started, caught Biggles's eye, and then looked away quickly. Then he looked at his watch, thoughtfully. "What about having a bite with me at my club?" he suggested. "

Algy won't miss you."

"Good idea," agreed Biggles.

II.

The following morning Biggles was rudely awakened by the abrupt entry of Algy into his room, still in pyjamas, a cup of tea in one hand, and a newspaper in the other.

"What's all this nonsense?" demanded Algy, holding out the newspaper with an irritable flourish.

"What are you talking about?" inquired Biggles tersely. "Who's responsible for this tripe?"

Biggles took the proffered paper, eyes on the paragraph indicated by his irate partner, and read: WORLD-FLYERS IN KARACHI.

Major James Bigglesworth, D.S.O., who had a brilliant record as a pilot during the war, landed yesterday at Karachi. His flight, which has already embraced more than half the globe, will be continued tomorrow towards England by a new route Istarain, Teheran, and the Black Sea ports. He is flying a Vickers "Vandal" amphibian aircraft with an a.s.sistant pilot and a mechanic. The airmen are staying at the Orient Hotel.

"Well," observed Biggles with a smile, as he looked up from the printed page, "what do you know about that?" "Did you go crazy or something last night?"

Biggles looked pained. "Me crazy!" he protested. "Don't be foolish. Someone's seen our machine on the tarmac and done a bit of guessing; that's all there is to it."

"Well, let's push on, for heaven's sake, before all the fabric is stripped off the machine by souvenir-hunters. We'll be dogged to death by baboo photographers if we stay here, and if my guv'nor sees my mug in the papers he'll throw a fit; he hates publicity."

"So do I. All right; I'm ready when you are. Let's. .h.i.t the breeze for Gwadir-I suppose we shall follow the Imperial route?"

"Of course. Well, get a move on," snapped Algy as he left the room.

Biggles had barely finished dressing when a boy arrived with half a dozen cards on a tray, and the information that the gentlemen who had tendered them were waiting below.

He hurried along the corridor to Algy's room and opened the door. "Buck up," he said, "

or we shall never get out; the first of the storm-troops are below."

"The who?"

Biggles cast a casual eye over the slips of paste-board in his hand. "H. F. Carruthers, 12th Bengalis," he read.

"Looks like a lad looking for a free flip home. J. L. Browner, Bombay Argus; F, L.

Winters, West Indian Photographic Agency; Sirdar Ali Sha-wonder what he wants?"

"Tell 'em all there's nothing doing," said Algy bluntly, picking up his bag.

"I have," replied Biggles simply, "or at least, I've told the boy to tell 'em."

A sound of voices, coming along the corridor, reached their ears, and the next moment the door was pushed open and an athletic young man entered, followed by a protesting native servant.

"Listen, chaps," began the young man apologetically; "I'm Carruthers of the 12th. I sent my card up. I've got three months' leave, starting today, and I'm full out to get home as quickly as possible ".

"Then you'd better go by Imperial Airways; we aren't leaving for a fortnight yet."

The subaltern's face fell. "Oh!" he groaned. "The paper said ".

"Yes, I know it did, but the paper knows nothing about it. Sorry."

"So am I," confessed the crestfallen officer. "Cheerio; sorry to have b.u.t.ted in."

"Don't mention it," returned Biggles, and then, turning to Algy, "Come on, laddie; let's hoof it or we shall be pestered to death."

"Pardon, gentlemen!"

Both pilots swung round as the words reached them from the direction of the door; they found themselves looking into the sombre face of a heavily moustached man carrying a fur coat over his arm. "I beg your pardon for this intrusion," he went on, "which only circ.u.mstances of extreme urgency could warrant. May I present myself; my name is Sirdar Ali Sha."

"I'm sorry, sir, but if you are looking for a joy-ride I'm afraid there's nothing doing,"

interrupted Biggles. "We are leaving in a few minutes for Gwadir, on our way to England."

"That is what I understand," nodded their visitor imperturbably. "I believe you are going via Persia and the Black Sea ports?"

"That is our intention."

"May I ask if you have the authority of the Persian Government to fly over its territory?"

Biggles started. "No, we haven't," he confessed, "but we do not antic.i.p.ate any difficulty.

Most National Aero Clubs extend their courtesy to foreign pilots."

"That may be so, but there are exceptions. It so happens that I have received an urgent message, a very urgent message, demanding my immediate presence in Teheran. I noticed the paragraph in the paper this morning and have called to see if we could reach an agreement. I am quite willing to pay any reasonable sum for my pa.s.sage, and in addition I could furnish you with doc.u.ments that might make your welcome in Persia-and Russia-more sincere than it might otherwise be. I would also mention that I am not a stranger to the air."

Biggles hesitated. "Well," he said, "we don't normally take pa.s.sengers, and, frankly, I don't feel like establishing a precedent. After all, although we do not antic.i.p.ate any trouble, accidents do happen, and should such a calamity occur we should feel morally responsible for any injury that you might suffer."

A shadow flitted across the heavy face of their visitor, and he looked at the two pilots for a moment, searchingly, before he replied. "Of course," he said slowly. "Still, you are both experienced pilots and I am quite willing to take the risk. In fact, I am willing to give you a letter completely exonerating you from blame in case anything untoward should occur."

Again Biggles hesitated. "All right," he said slowly at last; "if my partner agrees; and provided we can arrive at a financial understanding, I will take you. But I must make it quite clear that you come at your own risk and that I cannot definitely guarantee time of arrival."

"That is understood, of course," agreed the other. "What time do we start?"

Biggles glanced at his watch. "It is now eight-thirty," he said. "Suppose we say we will leave the ground at nine-thirty--will that suit you?"

"Admirably."

"Have you any luggage?"

"Only an attache-case."

"All right, then. We will meet at nine-twenty on the aerodrome and leave the ground at nine-thirty. Our first stop will be Gwadir and then Lingeh."

III.

The sun was blazing with the full power of its afternoon heat as the "Vandal" forged its way through the shimmering haze that hung above the Persian Gulf, a haze that turned both sea and sky to the colour of burnished steel. The horizon existed in imagination only; the gradual darkening of the sky just below the nose of the engine showed vaguely where the sky ended and the sea began.

Biggles studied his instrument-board diligently, from time to time glancing ahead as if expecting some landmark to show up through the haze. He had followed the coastline of Persia as far as Jask, and then cut across the strait of Ormuz, actually pa.s.sing over that , spur of Arabia called Oman, on a straight course for Lingeh, which, according to his reckoning, now lay some fifty miles ahead. A dark-brown blot loomed up through the haze, slightly to his left; it lay across the water like a monster that had risen from the depths of the ocean and lay basking on the surface. He nudged Algy and then pointed with the forefinger of his left hand to an insignificant speck on the map which bore the name Tumb Island. At the same moment the steady rhythm of the engines changed slightly, but it was sufficient to bring Smyth's head to the low doorway leading from the cabin.

Biggles's eyes sought his rev. counters and rested on the wavering needles of the instruments. The engine revs. had fallen, and were still falling. Simultaneously the nose of the machine turned until it pointed directly towards the island. The roar of the engines died away suddenly, burst into life again, and then faded away to a gentle purr. The nose of the amphibian tilted down, and a few minutes later the keel cut a long white scar across the smooth water of a natural harbour that yawned invitingly in the sandy beach.

As the machine ran to a standstill Algy looked at Biggles with wide-open eyes. "What's wrong?" he said.