Читать книгу Biggles in the Cruise of the Condor - W E Johns - Страница 7
ОглавлениеRUNNING THE GAUNTLET
The grandfather clock in the hall had just struck ten when Biggles pushed his chair back, rose to his feet, and buttoned up his coat. “Well,” he said, “I’ll be off before the moon gets up; this is the darkest it will be tonight.”
Dickpa looked at him anxiously, half inclined to withdraw from the venture which would put his nephew’s life in jeopardy at the very onset. “For goodness’ sake be careful,” he cautioned him, “and don’t make the mistake of under-estimating these fellows outside. They’re used to using their guns in their own country, and will stop at nothing to get what they want.”
Biggles frowned. “If they try any rough stuff on me, they’ll get as good as they give,” he said shortly. “You’ll probably have a tougher proposition to face here,” he added, putting on his hat and turning his coat over his white collar. “Algy can augment your supplies by sneaking out at night and getting fruit and vegetables out of the garden.”
“Yes, we might do that,” admitted Dickpa. “How are you thinking of getting out of the house?”
“Through the kitchen window,” replied Biggles. “I’ve had a good look round, and that seems to me to be the best place. There is only one small section of the paddock that overlooks it, and it lets me straight out into a thick clump of lilac bushes.”
“What about weapons?” asked Dickpa.
Biggles shook his head dubiously. “Better without ’em—at least, without firearms,” he replied. “What’s the use? Even if there is a rough-house, I can’t very well use a gun; the police-court proceedings would put the tin hat on the whole affair right away. If I happened to kill a Brazilian, it would hardly do to go to Brazil afterwards; I expect they’d make it pretty warm for me.”
“You’re right there,” agreed Dickpa, “and I think you’re wise. Well, goodbye, old boy; take care of yourself. We shall be waiting for you today week at dawn, on the edge of the spinney by the long meadow.”
“That’s it,” agreed Biggles, forcing the nailed-up window open as quietly as possible, using the tongs from the fireplace as a lever.
He peered long and steadily into the darkness. “It seems quiet enough,” he whispered, throwing one leg over the window-sill. “Cheerio, Dickpa. Cheerio, Algy,” he breathed, and a moment later he was swallowed up in the darkness of the night.
At the edge of the bushes he stood still and listened intently before crossing the exposed drive to the shrubbery beyond. He glanced upwards. A few stars were shining dimly, and, although the moon had not yet risen, there was just enough light to see without fear of colliding with obstacles. Slowly and with infinite care he parted the bushes and peered out. There was not a soul in sight; the only sound was the dismal hooting of an owl in the nearby spinney.
Swiftly but quietly he darted across the drive, freezing into immobility when he reached the deep gloom of the shrubbery on the other side. Was it or was it not? Had he seen a movement in the bushes a little lower down? He was not sure, for he knew only too well how easily one’s imagination can play tricks at night when the nerves are stretched taut.
Suddenly, not far away, a twig cracked, and he knew he had not been mistaken. In spite of his coolness his heart beat a trifle faster and a gleam came into his eyes.
“It begins to look as if Dickpa’s right,” he thought, for the enemy evidently kept good watch. With his left hand advanced to prevent collision with an unseen obstacle, he stealthily edged his way a few paces farther on. Another twig cracked, closer this time. Again Biggles stood stock still, eyes straining into the darkness, trying to make out the direction from which the sound had come. He thought it came from the right, but a moment later a bush rustled softly on his left and he caught his breath sharply. It began to look as if his exit had been seen after all and the enemy were closing in on him.
His lips set in the thin, straight line peculiar to him in moments of impending action. Intuition warned him that something was going to happen, and he was not mistaken. The blinding beam of a flashlamp stabbed the darkness, swept round swiftly in a short arc, and came to rest on him. Instantly he dropped to his knees. He was not a moment too soon. Something heavy whistled through the air over his head. He leapt sideways like a cat and collided head-on with a figure that loomed up before him. Acting with the speed of light, he brought his fist up with a vicious jab into the pit of the man’s stomach. There was a choking grunt as the man collapsed, clutching feebly at Biggles’s legs as he fell, but the pilot, thinking and acting simultaneously at the speed that air combat had taught him, was no longer there.
Casting all pretence at concealment to the winds, he darted away through the bushes, dodging and twisting like a snipe. He heard the heavy crash of a revolver; out of the corner of his eye he saw the blaze of the flash and heard the bullet rip through the branches just above his head. “Like old times,” he found time to mutter to himself as he broke through the far side of the bushes and sprinted along the edge. For a few minutes he heard sounds of pursuit; shouts, curses, and the crash of bodies plunging through the bushes. Again the revolver barked, and his lips parted in a smile as he heard an angry shout in answer, warning the gunman to be careful where he was shooting. “Algy looks like having a warm time if he tries any raspberry picking,” he thought as, with his eyes fixed ahead, he ran on.
Presently the sounds of pursuit died down behind him and he slowed down to take his bearings. He decided that he must have broken through the cordon, and with great satisfaction headed towards the nearest village at a steady trot.
Meanwhile Dickpa and Algy had stood staring at the open window through which Biggles had disappeared, the former with obvious anxiety and the latter with supreme confidence born of long experience in far greater perils.
“I hope I have done the right thing,” breathed Dickpa. “I should never forgive myself if, after all he has been through——”
“I shouldn’t worry,” broke in Algy. “Biggles can take care of himself, never fear.”
For some time they stood in silence, listening for any sound that might indicate the discovery of the adventurer, but all was still.
“I think he must have got through,” whispered Dickpa with a sigh of relief.
He had hardly spoken the words when there came a sudden shout, and a revolver blazed in the darkness outside.
Dickpa seized Algy’s arm in a vice-like grip. “That’s done it,” he groaned.
“Certainly not,” replied Algy shortly. “Biggles has been shot at before, don’t forget.”
Again they stood listening, trying to hear some sound which might let them know whether Biggles had been captured or whether he had escaped.
“Shh!” breathed Algy. “Don’t move. Under the apple-tree, over in the corner—I saw a movement. Look! There’s another of them—over by the yew hedge. They’re making for the house. All right, we’ll give them something to think about.” He hurried through to the hall, closely followed by Dickpa, and picked up the heavy elephant gun. “Is it loaded?” he asked quickly.
“Yes,” replied Dickpa, “but——”
“That’s all right,” muttered Algy. “I’m not going to kill anybody.” And, turning, he ran quickly up the staircase. He entered the door of a bedroom that commanded a view from the front of the house and opened the window quietly. Not a sound broke the stillness of the summer night.
“There’s one of them,” breathed Dickpa suddenly, “over there under the rhododendron bushes.”
“I see him; leave him to me,” whispered Algy. He took quick aim at the top of the bushes and pulled the trigger.
The roar of the great gun shattered the silence in a mighty volume of sound that seemed to shake even the house to its foundations. A full minute elapsed before the echoes had died away.
“Listen out there!” called Algy crisply. “I’m giving you fair warning that the first man who puts foot, within twenty yards of this house will get a dose of hot lead.”
Into the silence that followed, a sound of crashing and stumbling came from several places among the bushes.
Algy smiled. “That should give them something to think about, anyway,” he muttered grimly. “All the same,” he went on, “I shall be glad when the week is up; it’s going to be pretty monotonous sitting here doing nothing except keep guard.”
