Biggles and co, p.13
Biggles And Co, page 13
part #10 of Biggles Series
‘Well, that’s that. Seems as if we’ve had our walk for nothing,’ muttered Biggles grimly. ‘Hark!... Sounds as if the Boche are on our trail, too,’ he went on, as several pairs of heavy boots clattered on the distant stairs.
‘Yes, they’re following us all right,’ agreed Algy, as the footsteps drew nearer ‘It’s strange; you’d think there’d be some sort of way down —’
‘Hold hard! What’s this?’ Biggles had taken a quick pace towards the corner of the room, and Algy, peering forward, saw what appeared to be a crude ladder fixed perpendicularly to the wall.
Biggles ran up the rungs until he was brought to a stop by a square of unpainted wood let into the ceiling at that point. Raising his hand, he pushed on it and found, as he suspected, that it was a trapdoor; it swung open easily, but his exclamation of satisfaction was drowned by the crash of the door as it fell outwards on its hinges. A draught of cool air met his face. A moment later he had pulled himself up through the opening, and was standing on the roof, with Algy, who had followed him, by his side.
Not until this moment did either of them realize fully the vast size of the castle, or appreciate how far the style of the structure had been dictated by the necessity for defence; for the flat roof, bounded on all sides by an embattled parapet, stretched far away into the darkness. At each corner a conical turret overhung the void, clinging precariously to the wall like a swallow’s nest.
A few swift steps look them to the parapet. A single downward glance, and Biggles drew back hastily. ‘My goodness!’ he gasped. ‘What a drop.’
‘Yes, it seems quite a long way down,’ replied Algy. ‘But the point is, where do we go from here? I can hear those toughs coming along through the rooms. They can only come through the trap one at a time, so we ought to be able to hold the place indefinitely.’
‘Until we starve to death, in fact,’ sneered Biggles. ‘No, I don’t think it’s much good using force at this stage. Our only chance is to try to hoodwink them by leading them to believe that we didn’t come up here at all. Put the trap-door back; they’ll know we’re here if they find it open.’
Obediently Algy replaced the hatch, and then rejoined Biggles near the parapet.
‘Come on, let’s explore,’ whispered Biggles, and began to creep carefully along inside the wall.
There was no need for them to go far, however, to see that they were much worse off than they expected, for not only was there no way down to the ground, but there was only one possible place of concealment. A little to one side of the middle of the roof loomed a round structure, not unlike the top of a well, and towards this they made their way.
Biggles leaned over the breast-high stonework. The reek of stale smoke struck his nostrils, and he half turned away with a gesture of despair. ‘It’s the chimney,’ he said.
‘Pretty hefty chimney,’ observed Algy.
Biggles nodded. ‘Collects the flues of the whole building and shoots all the smoke out here,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s the old-fashioned idea. The modern chimney is comparatively new. Wait a minute,’ he added quickly as a thought struck him. ‘If I remember rightly, chimneys used to be swept by poor little devils who had to climb up and down them and brush the soot off by hand. I saw such a chimney once, in England; it had iron steps driven into the side. Have you got any matches?’ Algy produced a box. Leaning over, Biggles struck a match and held it as far down as possible in the pit. ‘My gosh, I’m right,’ he whispered eagerly. ‘Look, there’s the top rung. Over you go—quickly.’
Algy hung back. ‘Are you proposing to go down that black hole of Calcutta? We shall be out of the frylng-pan into the fire in every sense of the word.’
‘The fires aren’t alight; it’s midsummer. There’s no need for us to go right down. Let’s go far enough to prevent us being seen by these fellows if they happen to look. I’ll go first. Don’t kick more soot on me than you can help.’ So saying, he swung a leg over the yawning abyss, and feeling for the iron rung with his foot, disappeared from view.
Algy followed.
‘All right; that’s far enough,’ came Biggles’ voice from below. ‘You stand so that you can see the trap-door; if those fellows come out on to the roof, give a touch with your foot and we’ll go lower.’
‘O.K.’ breathed Algy. ‘S-sh Look out! they’re coming.’
Without waiting for anything more, they began to feel their way down the shaft, slowly, and not without some trepidation, for the result of a fall would, they realized, be fatal.
‘All right; you’ll do,’ whispered Algy at last. ‘We’re a good twenty feet down.’
For a long time nothing happened, but then the sound of voices slowly drew near, and what seemed to be an altercation took place at the top of the shaft. Then a match flared suddenly.
Algy, knowing that it would be more than likely that his white face would be seen if he looked up, kept his head down, and bit his lips as the hot match-stalk, released by the lighter, went down his neck. Another match was struck, and a few minutes afterwards the voices slowly receded.
For what seemed an eternity, but was probably not more than half an hour, the fugitives remained in their uncomfortable positions without speaking, and then Biggles tapped Algy lightly on the ankle. ‘Go and have a peep to see if they’ve gone,’ he breathed.
Algy found it was easier going up than coming down, for he could see the vague outlines of the big iron staples against the round patch of sky, and he quickly reached the top. For the last foot he raised himself inch by inch until his eyes grew level with the rim, and as they probed the moonlight around he let out a gasp of thankfulness. ‘They’ve gone,’ he said shortly, and climbed out on to the roof, where a moment later Biggles joined him.
‘I’m not sorry to be out of that,’ he muttered, as he shook a cloud of soot from his clothes. ‘All the same,’ he went on, ‘we had better stick around here for a bit in case they come back. In any case, the moon will be gone in a minute, and I’m not going to risk pitching over the parapet in the dark. It must be getting on towards daylight, anyway; the sun should be up about half-past four. Have you got the time on you? My watch has stopped.’
‘So has mine,’ Algy told him.
‘How long have we been wandering about this dolls’ house?’
‘I’ve no idea; seems like weeks.’
‘Well we can’t do anything for the moment. Really, I think this is, without exception, the craziest business we were ever in. Let’s sit down. There’s no point in standing when one can sit.’
They made themselves as comfortable as possible against the superstructure of the chimney, squatting down and drawing up their knees, and listening for any sounds that might indicate what was going on below them.
‘We’ve one thing to be thankful for, and that is that it isn’t winter time,’ remarked Algy optimistically.
‘You’re right there,’ admitted Biggles. ‘But the thing that worries me is Ginger. What will he think?’
‘Don’t ask me.’
‘He’s bound to get anxious, and as like as not he’ll try to find us. I left the poor little blighter standing at the bottom of the ladder under the dining-room window; I didn’t even tell him I was going in.’
‘I shouldn’t worry; he’s well able to take care of himself.’
‘Let’s hope he is,’ answered Biggles moodily.
The moon disappeared behind the distant forest, and Stygian darkness enveloped them. The brooding hush that always seems to mark the last hour of night settled over the landscape. Once, far away, an owl hooted mournfully, and something splashed furtively in the moat.
‘I wish I knew what that kid was doing,’ murmured Biggles sleepily.
But Algy did not answer. His head had slumped forward and his breathing had become the deep, regular respiration of sleep.
* * *
1 German: candle.
2 Cutting and thrusting weapon.
Chapter 10
Ginger’s Night Out
It was perhaps a good thing that Biggles did not know what had become of Ginger, or he would have been a good deal more worried about him than he was. He would not have been content to rest on the roof, that is certain. The chances are that he would have gone down again into the castle. What the result of that move would have been it is, of course, impossible to say, but things would certainly have fallen out very differently from the way they did.
For Ginger the night had been even more harrowing than it had been for the others, for being alone he missed the advantage of the moral support that the presence of a comrade brings; and added to this was the burning anxiety of not knowing what fate had overtaken Biggles—a matter that worried him more than his own sufferings.
The last he had seen of his Chief was when Biggles, without any indication of what he proposed to do, had climbed from the top of the ladder into the lighted room. Immediately afterwards, the approach of one who could only be an enemy had necessitated the prompt removal of the ladder, and as he lay in the shrubbery waiting for the danger to pass; he was not so much concerned with his own predicament as to what would happen if Biggles returned to the window to find the ladder gone, and an enemy passing by. The situation was desperate, and he was nearly at his wits’ end with impatience for the man to pass in order that-he might put up the ladder again, when he heard a sound that put all other thoughts from his head. It was a soft pat-pat, accompanied by a sniffing sound that could only have been made by a dog.
The danger had been bad enough before, but this, he felt, was the last straw. And so it proved. The man did not even hesitate as he drew level, and actually walked some yards past the spot where Ginger lay endeavouring to quiet his palpitating heart; it is quite certain that but for the behaviour of the hound he would have gone straight on.
Ginger could sense the very moment that the hound winded him. He heard it stop; heard the sniffing cease, and knew that its muzzle was pointing in his direction, questing his exact position. It was a dreadful moment, for he knew that discovery was inevitable. Presently the hound would come forward, and, if it was the same one that he had seen earlier in the evening, he knew that he would be lucky if he escaped with nothing worse than a severe mauling. So he acted promptly, for, his attention attracted by the suspicious behaviour of the hound, the man had stopped and was now coming back.
Fortunately, Ginger had a good idea of his immediate surroundings, for he had had time to study them while Biggles was standing on the ladder, and to this he unquestionably owed his preservation, although the course he adopted would hardly have been possible for any one older than himself, and consequently less nimble.
Grabbing a handful of loose earth, he sprang to his feet and hurled it with all his force at the hound, whose position he could pretty well judge. The animal sprang back with a growl, and this provided him with the brief interval of time upon which the success of his plan hung. Above him spread an ancient rhododendron-bush, its topmost branches mingling with the broad limb of a great cedar-tree that stood some twenty paces away. Up the rhododendron Ginger went like a cat. The hound sprang, and its teeth met in the turn-up of his trousers. For a moment it was touch and go. The brute hung on with commendable determination. So did Ginger. His foot was firmly planted in a fork or he must have fallen. Even so, something had to give way, and in the end it was the cloth. The hound crashed backwards into the shrubbery, and Ginger scrambled on to the cedar with the agility of a monkey.
The man below shouted something, but he spoke in German, and Ginger had no idea of what he meant. Not that he would have paid any attention if he had. Why the fellow did not shoot was always a mystery to him, although, later on, after giving the matter some thought, he concluded that the man must have been unarmed. Possibly he was off duty, and was simply taking an evening stroll.
Anyway, with his hands torn and his hair full of cedar-needles, Ginger reached the bole of the tree where the darkness was intense. The hound had followed on the ground, and he could hear it growling deeply in its throat as it pawed the resisting wood. Looking around in desperation, he perceived that another arm of the tree stretched far over the roof of the stables, and he saw that if he crawled along it he would be able to drop to the ground with the stables between him and his pursuers. This would give him two or three minutes’ start, for both man and beast would have to go round the end of the buildings in order to reach him. This seemed to present his only chance of getting away, and he set about its accomplishment forthwith.
At that moment Biggles’ shrill whistle cut through the air.
Ginger literally gasped with alarm, for he had forgotten all about the signal—and Biggles, too, if the truth be admitted—and he set off with frantic haste towards his objective. His speed was his undoing. There was a sharp crack as a branch snapped. He made a wild grab at another to save himself from falling, missed it, lost his balance completely, and bumped heavily on to the stable roof. The fall was not more than a few feet, but even so it jerked the breath from his body, which did not prevent him, however, from grabbing wildly at the roof down which he was now sliding. But the tiles provided only a smooth surface, although by pressing his arms against them he was able to retard his progress somewhat. Arriving at the end of the roof, his hands clutched wildly at the guttering. They found it, and clung to it with the desperation of terror; but it was as brittle as pie-crust, and the next second he had struck the earth amid a shower of tiles and broken guttering. Luckily he had fallen on the right side of the ridge—that is, the side away from his pursuers—so he had, in fact, achieved his original object, although not in the manner he had planned.
He was on his feet in an instant, racing towards the yellow square of light that marked the window of the power-house; what with his fear of the hound, and the knowledge that Biggles must be in danger, he ran as he had never run before. Without waiting to look in the window to see if the coast was clear, he burst open the door and hurtled inside, but in the split second that elapsed between the time of his entry and the time it took him to reach the main switch, he saw that the room was no longer unoccupied. A man was in the act of pouring oil, or water, into a tank behind the engine; at least, he had been in the act of pouring, but with Ginger’s whirlwind arrival, he dropped the can in alarm. By that time Ginger had swept his hand across the switch and plunged the place in darkness. Not complete darkness, however, for a lighted candle that the caretaker had brought with him continued to throw a wan light over the scene from the iron bracket on which it rested. From the direction of the castle, above the confused noises going on inside the power-house, came a sharp report, although he was only vaguely conscious of it; nearer at hand he could hear the baying of the hound, so he rushed back to the door, slammed it shut and bolted it.
But the other man had not been idle, and by the time Ginger had turned he was almost upon him. With something between a snarl and a sob Ginger cast about for a weapon, but there was nothing, and in the confined space there was little room to dodge; yet he did his best, and, due as much to luck as skill, he succeeded beyond his wildest hopes.
The man made a final rush, but Ginger ducked under his arm and darted towards the candle with the idea of putting it out. In order to reach it he had to pass under the long driving-belt that ran from the oil engine on one side of the room to the dynamo on the other. He had no difficulty in doing this, and sent the candle spinning with a sweep of his arm. But his pursuer was not so successful. Whether he forgot the belt altogether, or whether in the darkness he misjudged his distance, Ginger never knew, but there was a wild yell of pain and fear, mingled with an unpleasant swoosh as he ran headlong into it. This was followed by a vicious threshing of the belt as it ran off the driving-wheel. The engine, released of its braking influence, raced to a screaming crescendo, making such an appalling noise that Ginger cowered back with his hands over his ears, fearful lest the thing should jump from its bed and flatten him against the wall.
Yet with all this he did not lose his head, although his next act was instinctive rather than the result of definite thought. What had become of the engine attendant he did not know; he could not see him, or hear him, although he could hear the original guard beating on the bolted door with his fists. There was only one other way out, and that was through the window, and towards the square of starlight that marked its position Ginger groped his way. It opened more easily than he expected. A quick vault, a wriggle, and he was through, panting on the soft earth outside. The hound, he guessed, was on the opposite side of the building with the guard, who was now trying to force open the door, but he did not wait to confirm this. Instead, he sprinted away as fast as the darkness would permit. He did not know where he was going, nor did he particularly care. He was gasping from exhaustion, and his one idea at that moment was to place himself as far as possible from the guard, the engineer, and the hound. That done, he would look for a hiding-place where he could recover his composure and work out a plan of campaign.
The thing that worried him most was the report he now remembered hearing immediately after he had switched off the light. Was it a gunshot? A pistol shot? The sharp, deep bark suggested the latter. If so, it could only mean that Biggles was involved in trouble in the castle. What ought he to do? Suppose Biggles ran to the window in dire emergency, only to find that the ladder had been removed? True, the distance to the ground was not great, so if necessary he could drop, but he might tear himself badly on the bushes, or sprain an ankle—or even a leg. Again, the very absence of the ladder might cause him to hang back suspecting a trap.
As he struggled on Ginger hardly knew what to do for the best. He was in the last stages of mental and physical exhaustion, and the only scrap of comfort he could find was in the fact that the hound had not yet picked up his trail. In the ordinary way he was naturally fond of animals, but had he possessed a weapon he would have shot the hound with the greatest of pleasure, for apart from the fact that it was evidently a vicious brute, in the darkness its nose was a far greater danger than the eyes of its master.
