Читать книгу Biggles Hits The Trail - W E Johns - Страница 3

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Major James Bigglesworth, better known to his friends as Biggles, pushed his coffee cup aside, rapped on the table sharply with the handle of a spoon, rose to his feet, and looked from one to the other of his two guests with an expression of quiet amusement.

‘What are you going to do?’ inquired Algy Lacey, his comrade of many adventures, who sat on his left.

‘I’m going to make a speech,’ replied Biggles seriously. ‘I’ve never made one before, and I don’t expect I shall ever make another, but I think an occasion like this demands one. It is the first time——’

‘Absolutely, old lad,’ declared Algy, ‘but don’t be too long about it because I want to switch on the wireless. Menovitch is playing the Grieg Concerto at nine o’clock, and I want to hear it.’

Biggles frowned. ‘Whose dinner-party is this, anyway; whose room is it, and who’s making the speech, me or you?’ he inquired, coldly.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Thank you.’ Biggles cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen——’

‘Ha! Did you hear that, Ginger?’ interrupted Algy, glancing across the table at a sandy-haired, freckle-faced youth. ‘He called us gentlemen——’

‘Will you shut up?’ snapped Biggles. ‘You never could behave like a gentleman, even in Mess. I only called you one as a matter of form; there’s no other way to start a speech.’

‘How about “gallant comrades”?’

‘Where are they?’

Algy looked pained. ‘Did you hear that, Ginger?’ he complained. ‘He’s casting nasturtiums——’

‘I’ll cast the salad bowl if you don’t shut up,’ snarled Biggles.

‘Sorry, old lad, it shan’t happen again.’

‘Gentlemen,’ resumed Biggles, with a withering glance at Algy, ‘I feel I should fail in my duty if I allowed this auspicious occasion to pass without a few words on the reason for this festive gathering tonight. As you are aware, we sent our guest of honour—who, as we are all friends, I will call by his apt if undignified pseudonym, Ginger—to Brooklands Aerodrome for a course of instruction in the art of flying, and its allied subject, ground engineering. Last week he was tested for his Pilot’s ‘A’ Licence, and yesterday notification of its award was made by the Royal Aero Club.’

‘Hear, hear!—hear, hear!’ exclaimed Algy enthusiastically.

‘All right, once was enough; no one asked you to sing a song, did they?’ frowned Biggles. ‘But to continue,’ he went on, taking a letter from his pocket. ‘I have here a letter from Pim Carthorne—I mean Captain Carthorne—his instructor, and in it he speaks highly of the progress made by his pupil. I do not propose to read it, because, while praise is good when taken in small doses, too much is apt to cause a swollen head. Let it suffice that Pim—Captain Carthorne—has been good enough to say that his pupil on this occasion shows more than usual ability in the handling of an aircraft, and should turn out to be a first-class pilot. Further, perhaps on account of his zeal, his knowledge of care and maintenance and aero engines is equal to that of many qualified ground engineers. He concludes, however, by deploring his promiscuous employment of American slang, which he claims is likely to affect adversely any self-respecting British aeroplane.’

Biggles folded the note and put it in his pocket. ‘Before I offer you my heartiest congratulations, Ginger,’ he went on earnestly, turning his keen eyes on the blushing youngster who sat on his right, ‘I am going to give you a word or two of advice—from an old-timer to a beginner, so to speak. It is this. Do not set too great a store on such knowledge as you have acquired, which after all, at present, is very little. You can fly, and have flown, an aeroplane, which means that you are master of a machine. But never, never let your confidence outrun your discretion, for if you do you will be lucky if you live long enough to regret it. Never forget the fact that you are only allowed to visit the world above your earth-tied fellows on sufferance. By your art—call it a trick if you like—you have learned to overcome a great natural force—gravity; and you cannot flout Nature with impunity. Treat Nature with respect and she will tolerate you, even encourage you; but treat her with contempt, and your days are numbered. You know a little now, and when you have six thousand hours logged, as I have, you will know more; but that isn’t everything, and you will still be only a puny mortal at the best. Never forget that.

‘And finally, bear in mind that you owe something to those pioneers who made this great thing possible. Honour the traditions of courage, modesty, and faithfulness in little things that they have set down as a guide for you to follow, and you will always be welcome at any place where airmen meet, for they will know you for what you are, even though they do not speak of it. Fail in those qualities, and you will be less than a pariah slinking around the tarmac for such crumbs of good-fellowship as he can find. And now I am going to ask Algy to stand up and join me in drinking the health of the fledgling who we both hope will be a credit to his machine, to us, and aviation as a whole, in the old R.F.C. toast. Soft landings!’

‘And no dud engines,’ murmured Algy.

‘Ginger!’

‘Ginger!’

Biggles sat down and reached for a cigarette. ‘All right, Algy, you can turn the wireless on now,’ he said. ‘We’ll call on Ginger to reply to the toast presently.’

Algy glanced at the clock and hurried to the instrument. ‘It’s a bit late, I’m afraid,’ he said quickly, as he switched on and waited for the valves to warm up.

A voice, faint at first, but rapidly increasing in volume was speaking ... ‘few minutes late. Now before we begin here is an S.O.S.’

‘Oh, confound these S.O.S.s,’ grumbled Algy. ‘I’ve never heard of any one answering....’ The words died away on his lips as the voice of the announcer continued.

‘Will Major James Bigglesworth—B-I-double G-L-E-S-W-O-R-T-H, Major James Bigglesworth, last heard of at Brooklands Aerodrome, go at once to Brendenhall Manor, Buckinghamshire, where his uncle, Professor Richard Bigglesworth, is dangerously ill.’

Algy stared at the instrument. ‘Well, I’m——’

‘Shut up—he hasn’t finished,’ snapped Biggles.

‘I am requested to add,’ continued the voice, ‘that if Major Bigglesworth receives this message, and goes to Brendenhall, he is advised to exercise the same caution as on the occasion of his last visit—whatever that may mean. ... And now we are going over to the Albert Hall for——’

Click! Algy snapped back the switch, and as the voice ended abruptly, swung round on his heel to face his partner. ‘Well,’ he said crisply, ‘what do you make of that?’

Biggles shook his head; a worried frown creased his forehead. ‘Dickpa’s ill, obviously, but there’s more to it than that. I don’t like the sound of that last sentence, and that’s a fact. What was it? “Exercise the same caution as on the occasion of his last visit.” That’s a fair warning, Algy. You remember our last visit—eh?’

‘I’m not likely to forget it.’

‘Why, what happened?’ put in Ginger eagerly.

‘I can’t stop to tell you about it now,’ said Biggles shortly. ‘Dickpa—he’s my uncle—I’ve always called him Dickpa since I was a kid—was having a desperate time with a gang of American desperadoes on account of a secret he held. That message means that he’s in trouble; it can’t mean anything else.’

‘But how did he get word to the B.B.C., if he’s ill? Who told the B.B.C. about it?’

‘I don’t know, but I’ll soon find out.’ Biggles crossed swiftly to the telephone, ran through the pages of the directory until he found the number, and then dialled it. ‘Hello! Hello! Is that the B.B.C.? This is Major Bigglesworth speaking. I’ve just received your S.O.S. Can you oblige me by telling me how you received that information? ... Thank you.’ He glanced at Algy. They’re putting me through to another department,’ he explained. ‘Yes—Major Bigglesworth speaking,’ he went on quickly, turning again to the instrument. ‘Yes ... sorry to trouble you, but it may be very serious ... what’s that? ... Where? ... Brendenhall Station.... I see.... Thanks very much.... Thank you.... Goodbye.’ He replaced the receiver and turned to the others who were watching him expectantly. ‘The message was sent in by Lord Maltenham,’ he said, curtly.

‘Who the dickens is Lord——?’

‘I have no idea. Not the remotest. It doesn’t really matter, though. What does matter is that he has left a note for us with the station-master at Brendenhall Station; we are to call for it and read it before going on to the house.’

‘But how the dickens did he know that you would ring up the B.B.C.?’ inquired Algy.

‘He didn’t know it, but I expect he hoped I would. After all, it was a pretty obvious thing to do. The B.B.C. say that they were asked not to broadcast the message about the note at the station, but if I rang up they were to tell me. This fellow Maltenham’s no fool apparently. It sounds to me as if there’s some dirty work going on. Come on; let’s be getting along.’

‘You mean to Brendenhall?’

‘Of course; where else? Sorry we can’t finish the party. Ginger, but this is urgent. We’ll finish it another day. You haven’t met Dickpa, of course. He’s a grand chap—explorer. You may remember my telling you about our treasure hunt in the Matto Grosso, in South America. Well, he’s the chap we took—here, where are you off to?’

‘To get my hat and coat,’ replied Ginger, instantly. His face was flushed with excitement and his eyes sparkled. ‘I’m coming with you, aren’t I?’ he asked anxiously.

Biggles hesitated. ‘Yes, I suppose you can come,’ he muttered slowly. ‘Be careful what you’re up to, though; I’ve got a feeling there’s trouble ahead.’

‘That’s what I thought, otherwise I shouldn’t be so anxious to come,’ returned Ginger, coolly.

‘I thought that was what you were thinking,’ declared Biggles. ‘All right. What’s the time? Nine-thirty. My car’s in the garage round the corner. It’s a straight run down to Brendenhall, and provided it keeps fine we should do it in an hour. Just a minute.’ He crossed to the desk, took out a service Webley revolver, loaded it from a packet of cartridges that lay beside it, and dropped it into his pocket. ‘It’s always as well to be on the safe side,’ he observed, carelessly. ‘Come on, then; let’s get away.’

Exactly fifty-five minutes later Biggles’s Bentley pulled up with a groaning of brakes outside the small country station of Brendenhall. Two oil lamps cast a dim, yellow radiance on the platform, and a single lighted window revealed the booking-office.

‘Well, here we are,’ he observed, as he opened the door and stepped out. ‘You might as well come in with me and we’ll see what Maltenham has to say in his note.’ He led the way to the booking-office pigeon-hole. ‘I’m Major Bigglesworth,’ he told the clerk behind the grille. ‘You have a message for me, I believe?’

‘Here you are,’ replied the man immediately. ‘A gentleman left it about an hour and a half ago; he said you might be calling, but he couldn’t stop.’ He passed over the envelope.

The car swerved to avoid the tree across the road

‘Thanks.’ Biggles tore it open impatiently as he walked quickly to one of the outside lamps. ‘I’ll read it aloud,’ he said. ‘Dear Bigglesworth, Get up to the Hall as quickly as you can, but watch your step; there are some funny people about in the park. If you are driving, go slow and keep your eyes open. If you see a blue light, go for dear life. Your uncle has been hurt, so I must get back to him. He’s alone, and I’m afraid. I’ll tell you the rest when I see you. For God’s sake be careful. Yours, Maltenham.’

There was a moment’s silence when Biggles finished reading.

‘Not so good, eh?’ murmured Algy softly. ‘I suppose there isn’t any chance of this lad Maltenham being off his rocker?’

‘That letter sounds sane enough to me,’ replied Biggles grimly, ‘but it’s thundering mysterious,’ he added. ‘I wonder what this blue light is that he talks about—but there, it’s no use guessing. Let’s go. Algy, you take my gun; if any skunk takes a crack at us let him have it, but shoot low. We don’t want any inquests if we can possibly prevent it. Ginger, you keep your eyes skinned, but keep your head down if there’s any trouble.’

‘O.K., chief,’ agreed Ginger. ‘How far’s this Hall place, anyway?’

‘A couple o’ miles or so. The last mile is up a private drive,’ answered Biggles, as the car shot forward into the night. He ran on his side-lights only until he reached the drive, but as he turned slowly into the narrow entrance he flicked on the powerful headlights. They blazed like twin searchlights through a long avenue of horse-chestnuts, backed by heavy pinewoods, but there was not a sign of life as far as they could see, although a bend in the road a quarter of a mile ahead hid the house from view.

‘Watch out,’ ordered Biggles tersely.

‘See anything?’ asked Algy quickly.

‘No, but I expected to. I’ve never turned into this drive before at night without seeing one or two rabbits scuttle across it. There’s somebody about, I fancy.’ Biggles slowed down to a steady twenty miles an hour, but as nothing occurred his apprehension wore off and he increased the speed to thirty-five. He reached the corner, and with the old Elizabethan house now in view, he was about to put his foot down on the accelerator when a yell of warning broke from Ginger’s lips.

‘Look out—the tree!’ he shouted, and with his hands over his face, flung himself on the floor of the car.

Biggles saw it at the same moment. A great elm that flanked the drive fifty yards ahead was moving; with a slowness that was awful in its deliberation, it was falling straight across the road. There was no time to think, and he acted instinctively with the same speed that had more than once saved his life in the air. His heel crushed down the foot-brake while he grabbed the hand-brake and flung his weight on it. Instantly all four wheels locked. Fortunately the road was dry, but even so the heavy car skidded wildly as the wheels bit into the yielding gravel with a grinding scream that was lost in the mighty roar of sound as the huge tree struck the ground.

From first to last the whole thing was a matter of perhaps three seconds. It was touch and go. Carried on by its own volition, the big car swung sickeningly, and it was only due to the fact that the left side wheels went off the road and sank into the turf, dragging the car round to the left, that the party escaped annihilation. As it was, there was a splintering crash as a branch struck the bonnet and sheered through the windscreen in a cloud of flying splinters. The lights went out. Then all was silent.

Biggles was on the ground first, crouching forward, eyes probing the darkness ahead, behind, and aside. ‘Give me that gun, Algy—quick,’ he snapped. ‘Either of you hurt?’

‘We’re both all right,’ replied Algy in a tense whisper.

‘Good—stand fast.’

Silence, a brooding uncanny silence, fell, and Biggles slowly straightened his back. ‘Could it have been a fluke—an accident?’ he muttered.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Algy. ‘What’s this coming—look!’

There was no need to point. From a spot some little distance ahead a cold blue radiance appeared. There was no central point to the light, which appeared to have no beginning and no end; rather was it like a beam of phosphorescent mist creeping slowly through the night air in their direction. For a moment or two they watched it, fascinated by the phenomenon, and then Biggles sprang back in alarm. ‘It’s blue,’ he gasped. ‘It’s the blue light. Run for it—this way,’ He dashed off into the trees with the others at his heels.

At the first sound of their footsteps the light had increased in intensity and probed feelingly towards them. Biggles stopped suddenly and swung round with an angry snarl. ‘I’m not going to bolt from a confounded light,’ he grated, and jerking up the revolver, sent three shots crashing in quick succession in the direction of the beam. As the third spurt of flame leapt from the muzzle the light jerked suddenly and came to rest on his upraised arm, which remained motionless, picked out in lines of blue fire.

The others heard him catch his breath spasmodically, saw his fingers jerk open convulsively and the revolver fall to the ground. Then he sprang back and dashed past them. ‘Run,’ he cried in a curious high-pitched voice. ‘Run for your lives, and don’t stop.’

Side by side, stumbling and tripping over unseen obstacles, striking their faces on low-hanging branches, they tore through the wood. ‘This way—bear round to the right—let’s try and make the house,’ panted Biggles, as they raced on.

For what must have been half a mile they ran as they had never run before, and then, after a glance behind, they began to slow down.

‘What the——’ began Algy.

‘Don’t talk—keep going,’ snapped Biggles, and it struck Algy that he had never seen him so shaken. ‘This way,’ he went on. ‘I used to birds-nest in this park when I was a kid, so I know every inch of it. There should be a footpath about here—yes, here it is. Good! This will take us up by the back of the gardener’s cottage to the house. I think we’ve given them—or it—the slip, but keep your eyes open.’

‘What about the car?’ asked Algy anxiously.

‘I can’t help that. I wouldn’t go back to that place for fifty cars—not now, anyway. Quietly now; if these blue-light merchants have decided that we’ve got away they might make straight for the house to prevent us from getting in; they must know that’s where we were bound for.’

‘I suppose we shall be able to get in?’

‘I’m hoping Malty—this Lord chap—will be there to open the door for us. Here we are; quietly does it.’ Biggles stopped and peered ahead intently, listening, with every nerve taut.

Immediately in front of them, at a distance of thirty or forty yards, loomed the black mass of the old house. Not a light showed anywhere. The track they were on diverged a few paces ahead, one path turning to the left through a thicket of sombre, evergreen shrubs, and the other joining the weed-covered main drive where it swung round in a wide circle before the front door.

‘Let’s get a move on,’ muttered Algy irritably. ‘I’m getting the willies standing here. This is the sort of place where anything might happen—anything.’

‘You’ve sure said a mouthful,’ agreed Ginger. ‘Come on Biggles, let’s go.’

‘Right,’ snapped Biggles. ‘Run for it.’ Suiting the action to the word, he broke cover, and with the others close behind, sprinted for the front door. Reaching it, he twisted the old wrought-iron handle and put his shoulder against the massive oak portal, but it did not budge an inch. Casting all attempts at secrecy to the winds, he beat upon the panels with his fists. ‘Maltenham! Maltenham!’ he yelled. ‘It’s me—Bigglesworth. Open the door.’

There was no reply. Silence, utter and complete, hung over the place like a pall, and he felt a thrill of apprehension run through him. Frantically he kicked the lower panel with the toe of his boot. ‘Maltenham—Dickpa, open the door!’ he shouted again.

The ringing echo of his voice floated back eerily from the woods, but there was still no sound from the house. He moistened his lips and turned to the others. ‘I don’t like this,’ he muttered, turning again to peer into the gloom to left and right. ‘Either they’re not here or else——’ He did not finish the sentence.

‘Well, let’s break in, for heaven’s sake,’ exclaimed Algy. ‘Either my nerves are not what they used to be, or else there’s a blight on the place; I feel that if a mouse squeaked I should scream.’

‘For goodness’ sake, pull yourself together,’ Biggles told him angrily. ‘It’s no use trying these lower windows: they’re barred, as you know. We’d better try that side pantry window—the one—My heavens, what’s that!’

Shrill and clear through the still night air from somewhere in the wooded heart of the park came the long-drawn scream of a man in mortal fear. It rose to a high, palpitating falsetto and then ended abruptly.

It was so horrible that for a moment the three airmen remained rooted to the ground; Ginger was unashamedly clutching Algy’s arm, while Biggles, his face deathly pale in the wan star-light, peered into the darkness in the direction of the sound. For an instant or two he hesitated, and then threw up his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘Sounds like murder being done,’ he muttered harshly, ‘but we can’t do anything in the dark, and unarmed. Pray heaven it isn’t Dickpa. Come on, let’s get inside. Keep close.’ He led the way round to the side of the house and halted under a small square window. ‘I’d better go in because I know the way,’ he went on. ‘When I’m inside you slip round to the front door and I’ll let you in. Give me a leg up, Algy.’

He took out a box of matches, held them between his teeth, seized the window-sill in his hands and vaulted up. There was a tinkle of falling glass as he shoved his elbow through the pane. The window swung open and his lithe body disappeared through the small aperture. For a moment his face showed dully white in the black opening. ‘O.K.,’ he breathed. ‘Get round to the front door.’

He struck a match and hurried down the corridor that gave access to the breakfast room, from which a door opened directly into the huge hall. On his way he picked up a heavy silver statuette from a small table, and holding it by the head, swung it as a weapon; but he reached the front door without incident and threw back the chains and bolts.

Algy and Ginger literally leapt inside. ‘Get a light on the scene, for the love of Mike,’ implored Algy.

Biggles crossed swiftly to a large oil lamp that stood on the centre table, lighted it, and looked around swiftly. ‘My gosh! there’s been trouble here all right. Look at all this,’ he said. ‘The place looks like an arsenal.’

Right across the table lay an enormous double-barrelled elephant gun. Beside it was a hammerless twelve-bore, a .410 collector’s gun, and a small rifle. Leaning against the window that overlooked the drive was an Express rifle. Several broken boxes of cartridges were scattered about. A number of spears and cutlasses that normally decorated the walls had been taken down and were standing or lying in handy positions.

Biggles picked up the elephant gun and snapped open the breach. ‘Loaded,’ he said laconically, as he closed it again and replaced it on the table. ‘Where’s Dickpa? That’s the first and most important matter to attend to. Lock that door, Algy, and we’ll go upstairs; I know where his room—hark!’ The last word was a high note of warning. He snatched up the elephant gun and made a dash for the door. ‘Sounds like somebody coming,’ he added tersely.

‘And in a hurry,’ put in Algy, picking up the twelve-bore.

Footsteps were coming down the drive; they were those of a man running in stark terror, and if confirmation of this were needed, the loud gasping sobs for breath of the runner supplied it.

‘Look out—the light!’ cried Ginger.

‘You stand by to guard the door,’ yelled Biggles, and dashed into the open in the direction of the approaching footsteps. Dimly through the gloom he could just make out the dark form of a man who swayed from side to side as he raced towards the house. Behind him, silent, yet dreadful in its ghostly deliberation, danced a stream of blue mist. Biggles brought the gun to his shoulder. ‘Halt! who goes there?’ he roared.

The runner threw up his hands. ‘Shoot! Shoot!’ he screamed. ‘I’m——’ He stumbled and pitched face downwards on the gravelled drive.

Biggles’s lips parted in a mirthless smile as his fingers tightened over the triggers. He did not take aim for the simple reason that there was no mark to aim at except the uncertain light. Two long streaks of orange flame leapt from the twin barrels as the gun thundered out its heavy charges in a quick left and right. The blue light disappeared instantly. Bang! Bang! Algy’s twelve-bore blazed into the darkness, the spraying shot rattling on the bushes like hail. Crack! A flash came from the doorway, and a bullet ricocheted up from the road with a shrill whe-e-e.

‘Careful with that rifle, Ginger,’ shouted Biggles. ‘Come on, Algy—take his feet.’ He bent over the fallen man and seized him by the collar. Half dragging and half carrying, they managed to get the prostrate form into the hall, where they dropped him on to the hearthrug.

‘Shut that door, Ginger, bolt it and re-load the guns,’ ordered Biggles. ‘Algy, pass me that decanter off the sideboard. I believe this is Maltenham, and he looks in a bad way.’

Algy dashed to the sideboard and returned to where Biggles was removing the unconscious man’s collar. ‘That’s the idea,’ muttered Biggles, as they managed to get some of the liquid through his lips. ‘Not too much—we don’t want to drown him. Hello, what now?’ They both sprang to their feet as a new sound reached them. Standing at the foot of the stairs, hanging on to the banister, was a white-robed figure that held an automatic unsteadily in its right hand.

‘Dickpa!’ Biggles’s joyful shout eased the tension. ‘Be careful with the gun—it’s me, Biggles,’ he added quickly.

‘Thank God you’ve come,’ whispered the Professor fervently. ‘Great heavens! what’s happened? Don’t tell me they’ve got poor Maltenham!’

‘So it is Maltenham.’

‘Yes. Poor fellow, is he hurt?’

‘I don’t think so. It’s only shock and exhaustion I fancy. They were after him, but we managed to get him inside just in time. But what’s the matter; you look ill?’

‘I am. I shouldn’t have got up really, but I heard the noise. How did you get in? I must have been in a dead sleep; neither Maltenham nor I have slept for days.’

‘Well, you get back to bed,’ Biggles told him. ‘We’ll bring Maltenham round, and then perhaps you’ll tell us the meaning of this unpleasant state of affairs.’ Biggles turned to Algy. ‘See Dickpa up to his room,’ he ordered. ‘And you, Ginger, watch the drive through that window and let me know if you see anything unusual.’

‘O.K.,’ replied Ginger obediently.