14 Biggles Goes To War (13 page)

The Count rose to his feet like a man sleep-walking. `Come along, sir, hurry up,' called Biggles peremptorily. The Count recovered himself with an effort, and thereafter he acted swiftly. As he walked through into the corridor Biggles took the key out of the inside of the door, backed out of the room and locked the door behind him.

'Follow me, and whatever happens, keep going. We've no time to talk now,' Biggles told the Count as he put the pistol in his pocket and set off towards the stairs.

They went down the first flight without meeting a soul, but on the next landing they almost collided with a man who had evidently just come in through the vestibule. Biggles was about to pass when he caught the other's eyes. They both stopped dead. Recognition was mutual and instantaneous. It was Zarovitch, the Lovitznian minister who had visited them in their rooms in London on the night when Count Stanhauser had first called.

Biggles's hand jerked to his pocket, but before he could prevent him, the Lovitznian had turned, and, yelling at the top of his voice, was going down the stairs three at a time.

`That should set things buzzing,' growled Biggles. 'What is he saying?'

'He is shouting for the police.'

'In that case we had better find another way out. Let's try this passage.' Biggles hurried along a corridor, but after taking several turnings it came to an end. The corridor was a cul-de-sac. Shouts and the sound of running footsteps reached their ears.

'We are lost,' declared the Count with bitter fatality.

'Never say that,' returned Biggles coldly. A flat double door caught his eye, and he recognized it for a service lift, the sort that is used for heavy luggage. But the lift itself was not there. He pressed the call-button and heard a bell jangle somewhere below.

Would it be answered? He realized that everything now depended upon that. A moment later there was a grating jar as the lift doors were slammed somewhere below. Then came the peculiar

electric hum of an ascending elevator. At the same moment Zarovitch, with several men, some in uniform, appeared round the corner of the corridor. They pulled up dead when they looked into Biggles's gun.

Òne more step, Zarovitch, and it will be your last,' called Biggles crisply, the last word being cut short by the crash of the lift doors as they were thrown open.

A yawning porter stepped into the corridor, but his jaws snapped together and his eyes bulged as he took in the scene.

Biggles swept him aside with a swift movement of his arm. 'In you go,' he told the Count shortly.

There was a rush of footsteps as he slammed the doors. He pressed the bottom button and the lift started going down. 'The question is, where is this going to land us?' he murmured, as he put the pistol in his pocket and waited expectantly for the exit to appear.

It came, and revealed a large, dimly-lit room, littered with trunks and suitcases. 'Looks like the reception dump,' said Biggles as his eyes flashed round the room, seeking the door. Finding it, he reached it in a few brisk strides and threw it open. A courtyard, with access to a side street, met his gaze, but it was not this that made him falter, speechlessly.

Everything was covered with a mantle of white. It was snowing steadily.

Chapter 14

Fresh Dangers

`What are we waiting for?' asked the Count anxiously.

Biggles took a fresh grip of himself. He laughed harshly. `Nothing,' he said, as he stepped forward. 'Funny how the one thing you don't think of so often happens to trip you up, isn't it?' he added bitterly.

'Why, what has happened?'

'I'll tell you later. Let's go.'

As Biggles expected, the side street brought them to the main square, now nearly deserted. A few curious spectators were still lingering by the wreck of Gustav's stockin-trade, but he paid no attention to them as he cut straight across the square to where the cars had been. He increased his pace as he saw that only three remained, and in one of these a chauffeur was making ready to depart. Ginger was leaning against a tree near one of the others, but he was evidently on the alert, for as soon as he saw Biggles coming he slipped inside the nearest car, and by the time the others had reached him the engine was running.

'Step on it,' snapped Biggles as the car moved forward.

'You were a long time,' grumbled Ginger. 'I don't mind telling you I began to get worried when the cars started going. Originally, I chose a Mercedes—'

`Never mind what you chose; look where you're going,' interrupted Biggles curtly.

'Where are we going, anyway?'

`Back to the machine, of course.'

`The machine doesn't look like being much good to us even if it's still there,' answered Ginger, peering between the flakes of snow that were being caught by the windscreen.

`The snow may stop.'

Ginger shook his head. 'Not it. Not yet, anyway. I saw it start; nice big gentle flakes, as if it was going to make a really good job of it.'

`Well, we've nowhere else to go,' answered Biggles. 'It would choose this moment to start, confound it.' He turned to the Count. 'We've got an aeroplane waiting out in the country,' he explained. 'But, as you may know, an aeroplane isn't exactly a safe conveyance in a snow-storm, even if it can get off the ground - and it can't always do that.'

'Is there no other way of getting into Maltovia?' asked the Count.

`None.'

`You might try the bridge.'

'We might, but it wouldn't be much use.'

'Why not?'

`The two middle arches are missing.'

`What!'

`The most important part of the bridge, which is the middle, is no longer there.'

`Where is it?'

Ìn the river.'

`Great heavens! How did it get there?'

'It got in the way of a lump of high explosive and came off second best.'

`How on earth did that happen?'

It didn't exactly happen. I dropped a bomb on it. The Lovitznians were getting ready to march across.'

Àh! I see.'

`Had I known what I know now I would have waited until tomorrow, but we didn't know you were a prisoner when we bombed the bridge.'

`What are we going to do, then?'

`Whatever happens, I think we must go to the aircraft, or, at least, to the place where we left it, in case Algy is still standing by - not that I think he will be. I hope he had the sense to clear off home when the snow started.'

`Would he be able to do that?'

`Yes; the snow is coming from the north. Janovica lies to the south. If he took off at once he could race the snow home. But there, it isn't much use guessing; we shall do better to wait and see what has happened before we make any plans. Take it steadily, Ginger. We shan't see the ruts in this snow, and we only need to break a back axle now to be in a really good mess.'

After that they fell silent while Ginger made the best time he could, with safety, back to the landing-field. They did it in little over an hour, by which time the snow was almost blinding in its intensity. When Biggles stepped out of the car on arrival at their destination he sank in it up to his knees. 'It's worse than I thought,' he muttered savagely.

Ìs he here?' asked Ginger, referring, apparently, to Algy.

Ì don't know. You can't see ten yards in this stuff. Even if he is, flying is out of the question. I'm prepared to take risks, but I never did see any sense in committing suicide.'

Leaving the car on the side of the road, they hurried across the field to where they had left the machine, but, as Biggles had fully expected, it had gone. It mattered little, for he knew that it could not have taken off in two feet of snow.

And now what?' asked Ginger resignedly, when they had made quite sure that the machine was not there.

It was the Count who came to the rescue with a new hope. 'Wait a minute!' he cried. 'I believe I have the answer. I know this part of the country well, because I used to fish in the river when I was a boy. There is an old mill some distance down the stream; in the old days they used to keep a boat there.'

`How far is this place?'

Ìt must be nearly four miles from here.'

Às far as that! Can we get to it in the car?'

'No, we must follow the river. There is a tow-path, you know.'

Ìt should be a pleasant little jaunt on a night like this,' replied Biggles, sarcastically. 'I haven't much use for walking at the best of times, but in this stuff, and at this hour - still, it's no use grumbling, I suppose. Do you feel able to walk four miles, Count?'

`Yes, I think I can do that.'

`Very well. We may as well start as stand here and freeze to death.'

They set off in a straight line for the river, or as near a straight line as they could keep, for walking through the whirling flakes was no easy matter. Half an hour brought them to the tow-path, and Ginger could not help reflecting that they had covered the same ground in one minute of time earlier in the evening. The river lay like a great black snake in the snow so they could not lose their way, while the hard foundation of the path made the going easier than it had been over the turf.

The Count turned to the right on reaching the river and then set off along the bank. 'The snow has its advantages,'

he observed optimistically. 'We need hardly fear pursuit.'

'I should have been still less afraid of pursuit with a joystick in my fist,' replied Biggles grimly. 'However, we are not doing so badly.'

Thereafter they kept their breath for the task on hand, but even so they were all nearly exhausted when, two hours later, the Count announced that they were nearing their objective. He declared that he recognized a bend in the river. Thus cheered, the little party moved on again, thankful at least that the exertion kept them fairly warm.

`We've got a dickens of a long walk in front of us even when we get across the river,'

observed Ginger.

`We shall find a conveyance of some sort as soon as we get into Maltovia,' stated the Count confidently.

Ìn any case, it was no use staying in Lovitzna,' put in Biggles. 'Even if it was a thousand miles to Janovica, thanks to this snow we have no alternative to what we are doing.'

`That is true,' agreed the Count, brushing the worst of the snow from his clothes.

Fortunately, it was the dry, crisp sort that did not cling and melt. Àh, I see where we are,

' he went on. 'I remember this place quite well.'

The snow had thinned somewhat, and the others could just make out high, wild-looking, pine-clad slopes on either side of them. The open country had been left behind and they were, in fact, passing through a deep valley.

`What on earth would a mill be doing in such a place?' asked Biggles, mystified.

Ìt is a saw-mill,' replied the Count. 'The trees are cut down and shipped by barges to the other side of the country, where they are sawn into lengths for pit-props. There are some mines there. We must go carefully; it will not do to be discovered; the people who own the mill are Lovitznians, don't forget. Ah! there is the mill. I see it. I—' The Count's voice died away curiously. 'It seems to have changed,' he added dubiously after a moment or two.

They took a few paces nearer.

'I don't want to be pessimistic, but it looks to me as if all that is left of your mill is charred stumps,' observed Biggles casually. 'The place has been burnt down.'

The Count uttered a low cry and ran forward to where a few rough planks spanned a backwater. 'You are right,' he cried. 'The place has been burnt down, and - the boat has gone.'

Biggles stopped on the planks regarding the desolate scene. Where the saw-mill had stood, a gaunt skeleton of charred beams loomed darkly against the sky. In the backwater, half submerged in mud, lay an old barge, rotten, derelict. Near the water were piles of fir trees, stripped of their branches. 'It looks as if we've arrived about five years too late,' he murmured evenly.

'I'm afraid so,' agreed the Count sadly.

Ginger drew a deep breath and was about to speak when a long, mournful howl welled up somewhere in the black pinewood beside the river. He shivered. 'My goodness!

What's that?' he cried.

The Count began to back away. 'Wolves!' he said in a startled voice.

`Wolves!' Biggles almost barked the word. 'Do you have wolves here?'

`They come down in packs from Siberia in the winter. Cold and hunger drive them down.'

`How very cheerful,' answered Biggles, peering into the darkness, at the same time taking out his automatic. Ì don't want them to satisfy their hunger on me, if it can be prevented,' he announced.

`Nor me,' declared Ginger vehemently.

At that moment the snow stopped, the sky cleared like magic, and a wan moon shed a pallid light over the whitened world.

`Well, what are we going to do?' asked Biggles sharply. `Think of something somebody.

The situation is getting a bit beyond me.'

`Look!' The Count almost hissed the word. Swinging round, the others saw that he was facing the way they had come, evidently with the idea of returning. Fifty yards away, in the middle of the path, several dark shapes were slinking.

Biggles levelled his pistol, but before he could fire, almost as if the wolves had divined his intention, the shapes had merged into the black background of the trees.

The Count began walking quickly towards the mill. 'Let us take refuge in here,' he said. '

The brutes may think twice before attacking what is, or what looks like, a building. If they catch us in the open we shall not have a chance.'

The others needed no second invitation. Stumbling over logs and fallen timber, they made their way as fast as they could into what was left of the mill. The ground floor was piled up high with debris, but from one corner of it a flight of stone steps led upwards to the few boards that remained of the first floor.

`We had better get up there until we decide what we are going to do,' suggested Biggles.

`Yes, that is our best plan,' agreed the Count. 'It looks as if we shall have to wait here until the morning. Wolves are cowardly brutes and seldom show themselves in daylight.'

`Well, we shan't have long to wait, there is that about it,' replied Biggles, glancing at his wrist-watch. 'It's turned five o'clock now.'