Читать книгу Biggles Flies South - W E Johns - Страница 7

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Major James Bigglesworth, better known to his friends as Biggles, folded up the map he had been studying and put it on the paved terrace near the feet of the long cane-chair in which he was sitting.

‘No,’ he said, for the benefit of Ginger Hebblethwaite, who was standing near him. ‘Quite definitely, no. Algy will bear me out—if he is capable of bearing anything—that when we started on this trip it was agreed that we should fly direct to Cape Town without any intermediate meandering. Yet here we are, rather less than half-way, and you want to fly off, literally, at a tangent. My answer is, unless any insuperable obstacle arises to prevent me from getting there, I am going to Cape Town and nowhere else.’

‘Good enough, chief,’ agreed Ginger, with just a hint of disappointment in his voice. ‘It was only a suggestion, you know—‘

‘Yes, I know all about your suggestions. Say no more. The matter is closed.’ Biggles settled back in his chair and reached for the iced drink that stood on a small table near his elbow.

‘Picture of a Great White Chief putting his foot down,’ murmured the Honourable Algernon Lacey, more often known as Algy, catching Ginger’s eye and smiling at his discomfiture.

The three airmen were in Egypt, where they had arrived a few days earlier after an uneventful flight from England in one of the new ‘Tourer’ twin-engined sports aeroplanes which had been acquired for the purpose.

The reason for the trip was quite a prosaic one. Major Mullen, Biggles’s old C.O. in Number 266 Squadron, R.F.C., now a high official in South African civil aviation, had conceived the idea of a Squadron Reunion Dinner; but as many of the old members of the Squadron were now in Africa, in his service, it was decided that it would be more convenient for the majority if the dinner was held in Cape Town instead of London. This information, together with an invitation, had been sent to Biggles, who, having little to do at the time, had decided to accept, taking his two friends with him as guests. Naturally, it did not occur to him to travel any way other than by air, so a new machine had been purchased with the idea of making the occasion something of a pleasure cruise.

They had started with plenty of time at their disposal in order to make the journey in easy stages, which would allow them to see something of the places of interest on the route, and up to the time they reached Egypt this programme had been adhered to. They were now in Cairo, and had, in fact, been there for three days, leaving their machine at Heliopolis Aerodrome while they explored the ancient city.

Ginger, however, either because he found the slow progress somewhat irksome, or possibly because he was never so happy as when he was in the air, had lately formed a habit of suggesting minor expeditions by air, and it was such a proposal that he had just put forward. For reasons best known to himself—for he had not had time to disclose them—he had suddenly decided that he would like to see Jerusalem, and it was on this question that Biggles had given his decision.

They were staying at one of the lesser-known hotels on the outskirts of the city, partly because it was inexpensive, and partly because Biggles preferred to keep away from the usual tourist crowd with their clicking cameras and swarms of baksheesh-seeking natives. The hotel was, moreover, a small one, and they were not disappointed when they found that they had it almost to themselves. Night had fallen and they were sitting outside on the terrace under the gleaming Egyptian moon, enjoying a rest after a rather tiring day of ‘seeing the sights’.

‘So you’re thinking of moving on tomorrow?’ murmured Algy, glancing at Biggles.

‘I think so. I fancy we have seen all that is likely to interest us here. We’ll push on to Khartoum; there are one or two R.A.F. fellows stationed there whom I should like to look up.’

‘Suits me,’ agreed Algy. ‘Anything for a quiet life. I find it curiously refreshing to be able to drift along like this, in our own time, instead of roaring about on some crazy business.’

Ginger wrinkled his nose but said nothing, and presently turned his attention to a particularly large white moth wheeling in erratic flight among the orange trees that stood at intervals in the garden, which began where the terrace ended. In many respects he was now grown up, but he had not yet lost the boyish desire to chase an attractive butterfly. Picking up his sun helmet in lieu of a net, and keeping as far as possible in the inky shadow of a group of fern-palms, he began a cautious advance towards his quarry; but he had not taken more than a dozen paces when he saw something that caused him to halt, tense and alert, the moth forgotten. Some twenty yards to his right a low white wall separated the garden from the road on which the hotel was situated; a line of tall date-palms followed the wall, and through their graceful fronds the moon cast a curious lattice-like pattern of black-and-white bars that fell across the dappled flower-beds, the sandy paths, and the wall beyond. Along the inside of the wall, ghostly in the silvery half-light, was creeping the white-robed figure of a native. The criss-cross shadows of the palm fronds fell across his sheet-like burnous so that he appeared to be gliding behind the bars of a cage; and so silent and furtive were his movements that it was at once apparent that his purpose was not a lawful one.

At this juncture it is probable that Ginger would have denied that his interest was anything more than natural curiosity. He had travelled far, and in strange lands, and the mere unexpected appearance of a soft-footed native no longer aroused in him the instinctive suspicion, and possible apprehension, that it does in most Europeans when first they find themselves in a land where the native population is ‘coloured’. Yet there was at once something so sinister about the actions of the intruder—for Ginger’s common sense told him that the man would not behave thus were he not trespassing—that he felt his nerves tighten in expectation of something that was about to happen.

Making no more noise than the object of his suspicion, he took a pace or two nearer and placed his helmet on the ground. A swift glance in the direction of the terrace revealed Biggles and Algy still sitting where he had left them; the faint murmur of their voices reached him, and he would have attracted their attention had it been possible without alarming the man who was still creeping stealthily along the inside of the wall. Reaching the wrought-iron gate that gave access to the road from the garden, the intruder stopped, and it was at that moment that Ginger had his first suspicion of his purpose. He saw the moonlight glint dully on something that he held in his right hand, and an instant later he heard footsteps beyond the wall, as though someone was approaching the gate from the outside.

The inference was immediately apparent. A visitor was about to enter the hotel by the garden gate, and the man inside was stalking him with murderous intent.

Ginger, with the idea of frustrating this, at once started forward, and he was just in time to avert a tragedy. The garden gate swung inward, and a slim figure in European clothes, but wearing the customary tarboosh of the better-class Egyptian, appeared in the opening. At that moment the assassin made his attack, but Ginger, seeing what was about to happen, and perceiving that he could not reach the gate in time, had uttered a shout of warning; and there is no doubt that his prompt action saved the new-comer’s life, for the cry had its effect on both actors in the drama. The figure in the tarboosh jumped aside, and his aggressor hesitated momentarily in making his stroke.

By this time Ginger was less than half a dozen paces away, and his swift approach was heard. Even so, the assassin made a last desperate attempt to achieve his purpose; he made a cat-like spring, but the other was as quick, and warded off the gleaming blade by an upward sweep of his arm. The attacker, seeing that Ginger was now almost upon him, and noting, no doubt, that he was a white man, darted through the gate and fled.

Ginger, knowing the futility as well as the danger of pursuit, did not attempt it, but contented himself with flinging a stone, which he snatched from the top of the wall, at the flying figure. It missed its mark, however, so with a grunt of chagrin he turned back to the gate, to find that Biggles and Algy had arrived on the scene.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Biggles sharply.

‘A fellow tried to knife this chap,’ answered Ginger briefly, indicating the new-comer, who was standing near the wall with one arm resting against it. ‘Jolly nearly got him, too,’ he added, noting that the man he had saved was also a native.

Biggles’s keen eyes evidently saw something that Ginger’s did not, for he took a quick pace forward. ‘Did he touch you?’ he asked the stranger.

‘It is nothing,’ was the quiet answer, spoken in perfect English. ‘My arm—a scratch—nothing more.’

‘You had better come up into the light and let us have a look at it,’ suggested Biggles in a friendly tone.

‘Thank you. You are most kind,’ was the soft answer, and the four of them walked quietly to the terrace.

‘My word! You had a close squeak, and no mistake,’ observed Biggles, as the stranger exhibited a slashed sleeve and a bloodstained hand. ‘Algy, slip in and get a towel or something. Better ask the manager to come along, too.’

‘No, say nothing,’ put in the stranger quickly. ‘It will be better so.’

‘Well, it’s your affair,’ agreed Biggles as Algy hurried away on his errand.

While they were waiting for him to return Ginger had a good look at the man he had saved. He was, as he had already observed, a native, but obviously one of the better class, and his skin was not much darker than that of a sunburned white man. He was young, no older than himself, with finely cut features and soft, intelligent eyes. His clothes were of good quality, and might have been made in London; indeed, but for his distinguishing tarboosh, he might have passed for a European.

Algy soon returned with two soft linen face-towels. With one of these Biggles cleaned the wound, and with the other, folded in the manner of a bandage, he bound it up. Fortunately, as the victim had stated, it was little more than a scratch, and he smiled apologetically as Biggles gave him medical attention.

‘Does this sort of thing often happen to you?’ inquired Biggles. ‘If it does, the sooner you provide yourself with a suit of armour, or a bodyguard, the better. You might not be so lucky next time.’

‘It has never happened to me before,’ was the candid reply.

‘Are you feeling all right now?’ Biggles asked the question in a manner which suggested politely that the wounded man was free to proceed on his errand if he so wished.

‘Quite all right, thanks to you,’ was the quiet answer. But the stranger made no move to depart.

There was rather an embarrassing silence in which Biggles lit a cigarette.

‘You were coming to the hotel, weren’t you?’ inquired Ginger, more for the sake of saying something than inquisitiveness.

The answer took them all by surprise. ‘Yes, I was coming to see you,’ said the young Egyptian quietly, looking at Biggles.

‘To see me?’ Biggles was frankly astonished.

‘Yes—you are Major Bigglesworth, are you not?’

Biggles looked at their guest with renewed interest. ‘Yes, that is my name,’ he admitted. ‘Sit down if you have something to tell me.’

‘Thanks. I will, if you don’t mind. The shock of the attack has left me a little—how do you say?—shaken.’

There was another short silence while the visitor seated himself, and the airmen waited for him to continue.

‘My name is Kadar Alloui Bey,’ he said at last, in a manner which suggested that it might mean something to his listeners.

Biggles shook his head. ‘Do not think me discourteous, but I am afraid I must confess that your name means nothing to me.’

‘No—of course, you are a stranger here. My father’s name is not unknown in Cairo.’

‘I see,’ returned Biggles awkwardly. ‘You came to see me about something?’ he prompted.

‘Yes. The circumstances of my arrival have made my mission rather difficult, but—you are an air pilot, I believe?’

‘That is correct,’ admitted Biggles, wondering what was coming next.

The other coughed nervously. ‘I was coming here to ask you if you would care to sell me your aeroplane.’

Biggles stared. ‘Sell you my aeroplane?’ he repeated wonderingly.

‘Yes, I have urgent need of one.’

‘But couldn’t you get one here—I mean, through the usual channels? Haven’t Misr Airwork got one for disposal?’

‘No, unfortunately. As far as I can discover there is not an aeroplane for sale in Egypt—at least, not of the sort I require. You see, I need a large one, and all the large ones are in use on the air routes. Owing to the air expansion in England there are no civil aeroplanes to spare; even the air line companies need more than they have, for they are running to capacity on every service.’

‘I see. Well, I’m afraid we need ours. In any case, do you know what an aeroplane costs?’ Biggles asked the question seriously, feeling sure that the young Egyptian must be unaware of the cost of a large modern aeroplane, and that when he was better informed he would soon give up the idea of buying one.

‘A twin-engined tourer such as yours costs, I believe, eight thousand pounds. Had you been here on business I was prepared to offer ten thousand pounds for it,’ was the calm answer.

Biggles could hardly believe his ears. ‘You are right about the price,’ he confessed. ‘Still, I am afraid I cannot part with my machine. All the same, we are in no great hurry, and if you want a lift somewhere it might be arranged. In fact, under certain conditions, if your purpose is really urgent—which apparently it is—I would be prepared to let you charter it for a couple of days.’

The other shook his head and smiled as he stood up. ‘Thank you. That is very generous of you, but I am afraid that would be no use. I should need it for some time, and it might take me a little while to find a pilot.’

‘I see. You can’t fly yourself?’

‘No. I was in rather a difficult position. It was no use my engaging a pilot before I had an aeroplane. Had I been able to buy one, my intention was then to find a pilot to fly it for me, to take me to the place I wish to visit.’

‘I understand,’ said Biggles slowly. ‘I am sorry, but I am afraid we can’t do anything about it. As a matter of detail, we are on our way to Cape Town. If your objective lies in that direction, we shall be happy to give you a lift.’

‘No, I fear that would not do, thank you all the same,’ answered the young Egyptian rather sadly. ‘I am sorry to have taken up your time. Never mind; perhaps it would be better if I abandoned my project.’

A new thought struck Biggles. ‘Was the project you mention the reason for the attack made on you just now?’

‘Undoubtedly,’ was the instant reply. ‘I think it would be safe to say that it was in order to prevent my reaching you that I was waylaid. There could be no other reason. I knew I was being watched, but I did not think my enemies would go as far as to try to murder me.’

‘Somebody must be very anxious to keep you in Cairo,’ smiled Biggles.

‘Yes, very anxious, and I think I know who it is. But there, as I say, no doubt he will leave me alone when it becomes known that I have abandoned my proposed quest.’

The final word made Ginger prick up his ears. ‘Quest?’ The word was a naïve question.

Biggles frowned. ‘Don’t be inquisitive,’ he admonished him.

Their guest smiled. ‘It is no secret,’ he said. ‘Yes, I suppose one would call it a quest. I have spent some years preparing for it, so it is rather disappointing to have to give it up. Still, we must learn to accept these things as they come.’

‘You speak English very well,’ said Biggles, changing the subject.

‘That is not surprising, considering that I was at school in England for seven years,’ was the unexpected reply.

‘The dickens you were!’

‘What was this quest you were projecting?’ persisted Ginger.

‘I am afraid it is rather a long story.’

‘Well, the night is young,’ declared Biggles. ‘I can’t make any promises, but if you feel like telling us something more about it, perhaps—‘

‘I will tell you with pleasure, because I know without being told that you will respect my confidence. Much of my information is common property, but there are some things—‘

‘Shall we sit down and have some coffee?’ suggested Biggles.

‘Thank you, you are most hospitable.’

‘Ring the bell, Ginger,’ ordered Biggles.