Читать книгу Biggles Flies Again - W E Johns - Страница 9

Table of Contents

With Algy at the stick, the “Vandal” nosed its way through the night, three thousand feet above the mighty Cordillera, and headed for the plateau. Biggles, looking out, could see the lake clearly, and waved the pilot on a course midway between it and the spot where he had seen the llamas. He stood up, and then started to climb out. Algy throttled back to stalling speed and waved his hand in silent farewell. Biggles remained poised for a moment and then disappeared into the black void below. The pilot turned in a wide circle back towards the aerodrome.

Biggles, plunging downwards, gasped in relief as the parachute opened and his harness took the strain. He looked around curiously. To the right lay the lake; below, the plateau was wrapped in profound darkness and merged into the mountains, whose razor-like peaks, hard-cut against the sky, encircled him. The silence was uncanny; only the distant hum of the “Vandal’s” engines reached his ears, and a horrible feeling slowly crept over him that he was not falling, but was hanging suspended in space from some invisible object. Suddenly the black floor of the earth seemed to spring up to meet him.

“Heck!” he gasped, as he sprawled headlong, and then staggered quickly to his feet. But there was no danger of being dragged; the air was still and the silk billowed softly to earth beside him. He removed his harness, folded the parachute roughly into a ball, and thrust it out of sight under a tola bush. He then unfastened a bundle from his shoulder and unwrapped the poncho he had bought in the market. This he donned, together with one of the round hats worn by the natives, and placing his revolver ready for instant action set off at a brisk pace in the direction of his destination. He made little attempt at concealment, but nevertheless he paused every few minutes to listen.

He had walked for perhaps twenty minutes when a light became visible ahead and he advanced more warily; presently he was able to discern that the light came from the open window of a large adobe building which stood at the entrance of the ravine they had marked down on the photo-map. A short distance beyond were several more dim lights and a group of low buildings, which he took to be the ranchos, or peons’ dwellings. Walking on tiptoe, every nerve alert, he sidled up to the rock wall of the canyon and stood for a moment staring into the darkness, ears strained to catch the slightest sound.

Faint voices and the noise of animals munching came from the direction of the ranchos; then somewhere near at hand a man began speaking in a loud voice. Biggles was surprised there were no sentries, and came to the conclusion that the bandit relied on those in the mountains to prevent the approach of strangers. Stealthily he crept nearer to the open window, which he could now see reached to the ground and opened on to the inevitable patio. Revolver in hand, he peeped in. Seated at a table in the centre of the room, on which were strewn the remains of a meal, were a man and a girl. The man had his back towards him, but the girl was facing the window, and after the first glance he had no doubt as to her identity. She wore a black mantilla which covered the hair and was draped across the shoulders, enhancing the poise of the proud Castilian head.

The man was talking of ransom and the unpleasant consequences that would follow the refusal of her father to pay, and Biggles’s nostrils twitched slightly as he listened and then advanced noiselessly across the room towards the unsuspecting man. The girl did not move; she must have seen him, yet not by a single movement did she betray it.

“One sound, señor, and you die,” said Biggles coldly. “Keep your hands upon the table.”

The Bolivian’s head turned slowly. His eyes looked straight into the muzzle of the gun in Biggles’s hand and remained fixed on it, as if fascinated.

“Señorita, we go,” said Biggles quietly.

“Donde, señor?”

“To your father.” Obediently she rose to her feet. “And you, señor, I hesitate to kill you, but I fear I must—unless you would prefer to accompany us?”

Estaban Martinez, accustomed to carry out the threats he promised, did not understand simple bluff. He drew a deep breath, opened his mouth as if to speak, saw Biggles’s finger tighten on the trigger, changed his mind, and with an expressive shrug of his shoulders rose to his feet and walked slowly towards the window. Biggles relieved him of his knife and revolver and tossed them into a bush.

“One sound, señor, and I shoot,” he murmured again as Estaban glanced reflectively towards the ranchos. “Let us go to the lake; it looks enchanting in the moonlight.”

The bandit bowed and started off in the desired direction, with Biggles and the girl close behind.

They covered a mile in silence while the moon rose and flooded the plateau with silvery radiance. Suddenly Estaban laughed, making it clear that he apprehended no danger from the direction they were taking. It was not a pleasant sound, and the pilot hoped more than ever that his plan would not fail. They reached the edge of the water and he glanced at his luminous wrist-watch. It was only three o’clock; they would have to wait more than two hours for daybreak.

“How long do we stand here?” asked the bandit, after a while. “I have seen this view before; it becomes monotonous.”

“I’ll show you another presently if you will have patience—one you’ve never seen before,” Biggles promised him with mock politeness.

“Tomorrow you shall pay for this,” returned the bandit venomously.

“Wear this, señorita; it grows cold,” said Biggles, handing the girl his poncho.

“Gracias, señor,” she whispered, looking in surprise at the semi-military jacket he wore, and which he now exposed for the first time.

The pale glow of the false dawn flooded the eastern sky, faded, and was replaced by the first shafts of light of the true dawn. Slowly the lake turned from black to steely blue. The snowy peaks of the Andean range which towered above them gleamed pink against a pale turquoise sky. The light grew stronger and the mountain tops assumed a more rosy hue in the crystal-clear atmosphere.

Biggles glanced towards the canyon and saw figures moving near the entrance. At the same moment he heard the distant hum of the “Vandal’s” engines, and his trained eye picked out a tiny moving speck flashing back the sunlight above the range. The bandit drew in his breath with a sudden hiss of understanding as the distant crackle of rifle-fire reached them.

“The reward offered for your person is the same, dead or alive,” said Biggles pointedly, as the bandit crouched low as if to spring; “the choice rests with you.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw mounted figures racing towards them from the direction of the canyon, and knew that they had been seen.

But Algy in the “Vandal” had seen them too. He flattened out over the water as near to them as he dared, and the keel of the amphibian cut a long line of creamy foam across the surface of the still water. Without waiting for the machine to finish her run he swung round and taxied swiftly towards them.

“In you go, señorita,” said Biggles briskly, for the peons were less than a quarter of a mile away, and she waded out into the icy water without a moment’s hesitation to where Algy was now waiting at the cabin door to receive her.

Estaban’s lips parted in a snarl and he held his ground.

“As you like,” said Biggles coldly, raising his revolver and squinting along the barrel.

“Wait!” cried Estaban. “I go,” and he followed the girl into the machine, with Biggles close behind. The amphibian surged out into deep water just as the peons reached the bank and raised their rifles. A volley of shots rang out and a bullet glanced off the engine-cowling with a shrill whang.

Algy shoved the throttle open viciously, and the “Vandal”, gathering speed every second, roared across the lake in a cloud of spray. He was conscious of someone crawling into the seat next to him, but he did not look to see who it was; with set face he was watching the opposite bank rush towards him, and still the machine did not “unstick”. White-lipped, he jerked the control column back into his stomach; the “Vandal” lifted itself from the water with an effort and wobbled as if uncertain as to whether to go on or fall back again. For one ghastly moment he thought she was going to stall, but she picked up slowly and rose gracefully into the air. The pilot shuddered; only he knew how close they had been to disaster.

As they climbed slowly towards the peaks now gleaming dazzling white against a brilliant blue sky, he risked a glance at his companion, and started as his eyes met those of the girl. They smiled as their eyes met, and Algy looked towards the mountain ranges with renewed interest.

As they crossed over them several bullets struck the machine. One ripped through the instrument-board and the altimeter flew to pieces in a shower of splinters and broken glass. The girl did not even flinch, and Algy grinned his admiration as he throttled back and began the long glide towards the aerodrome.

As their wheels touched the ground Wilkinson and several officers ran out to meet them, only to stop in stupefied amazement when they saw who was sitting in the front seat with the pilot.

“Coffee for four and jump to it!” cried Algy, as he switched off. “The señorita is frozen.”

“Make it for three,” corrected Biggles, emerging from the cabin.

“Why for three?” asked Algy in surprise.

“Estaban won’t need any,” replied Biggles quietly. “He got his head in the way of one of those slugs as we crossed the mountains. Go and give the President a ring, Wilks; he must be anxious about his daughter.”