Part 9 (2/2)

'I'll get you one.'

'One other thing. What happens if, for any reason, the plane doesn't turn up? Weather conditions or engine trouble might upset the timetable.'

'Yes, that's a point,' conceded Smith. 'I'll make arrangements for the same cart to come back, at dawn, with a load of vegetables. Don't try to get here on it. Just show yourselves to the driver. He'll let me know you're still in the country and I'll try to arrange something. On no account try to get back here by yourselves.'

'Fair enough,' agreed Biggles.

Smith departed.

'I don't know what the country would do without people like that,'

murmured Ginger. '

Smith must have nerves of steel to stand the strain of this sort of existence. We take chances, I know, but we keep on the move and have time to get our breath between shows. He's stuck here, without friends, day in and day out.'

'And the people at home take it all for granted a” except those in the know,' answered Biggles moodily. 'All the same, I wouldn't say he's entirely without friends. There must be a lot of people in Czechoslovakia who are browned off with being pushed around by the Russians.'

'You know,' went on Ginger, 'I can't help thinking what a stinking bit of bad luck it was, running into von Stalhein as we did. I bet he's fairly set things buzzing.'

'As long as he doesn't come buzzing at Smith's front door, I don't mind,'

averred Biggles.

'Smith must know that every time he takes in people like us, he's taking his life in his hands. But, there, he must be well able to take care of himself or he wouldn't have lasted as long as he has.' He looked at his watch. 'The tiresome part of this sort of scheme is the waiting, with nothing to do,' he muttered.

At about seven o'clock, with the daylight fading, Smith came back with some sandwiches. 'Better have a last snack before you go,' he said cheerfully. 'We're all set.

Everything is arranged. My contact in London has acknowledged my signal.

Your message has been pa.s.sed on to your department, with implicit instructions for finding the field. The plane should touch down at one in the morning. Come down just before nine. I'

ll be in the shop, keeping an eye on things. Don't leave anything about, not even a crumb.

'What's the weather like?' queried Biggles.

'Pretty miserable, but it's improving. The sky should be clear by zero hour.'

'Thank goodness for that.'

'See you presently,' said Smith, and went out.

Ginger watched him go, not knowing that he would not see him again.

The next hour and a half pa.s.sed slowly, as is always the case when important events are impending. The grey light that filtered through the skylight became weaker, and finally died. The dim twilight in the attic gave way to darkness. Not even a cigarette glowed, for Biggles had refrained from smoking for some time, rather than leave any ash about. Only his wrist watch, at which he looked with increasing frequency, glowed like a luminous eye.

At last he got up. 'Okay,' he said. 'It's a quarter to nine. Let's go down.'

So saying he walked over to the door and opened it. Simultaneously there came a peremptory knocking on what sounded like the door of the shop.

Confirmation of this impression came a few seconds later when the bell jangled, announcing that the door had been opened.

Biggles did not move. Ginger, too, stood still with his heart in his mouth, as the saying is.

Up the narrow stairs came the murmur of voices, m.u.f.fled by distance. Then came the sound for which Ginger was by this time prepared, although he still hoped that his fears were groundless. Somewhere in the room behind them a buzzer buzzed urgently. It was a simple sound, but in the circ.u.mstances there was something so sinister about it that Ginger experienced a feeling of chill down his spine.

Biggles closed the door carefully, quietly. 'Apparently we don't leave by the front door, after all,' he said calmly. 'The skylight it is. Up you go.'

'What about Smith?' protested Ginger.

'What about him?'

'We can't just bolt and leave him.'

'Use your head,' said Biggles curtly. 'If we're found on his premises he won't have an earthly. With us out of the way he'll hold his own. He must have made provision for this sort of situation. You're wasting time. Get cracking.'

Ginger delayed no longer. In the light of the torch provided by Smith, held by Biggles; he climbed on to the table, and then on the box that stood on it. This enabled him to reach the single large pane of gla.s.s above his head. He pushed it up, and allowed it to fall back gently on its hinges. A pull and he was through, lying flat, groping desperately for a hold on the sloping roof, aghast at what he saw. A few feet below him the roof ended in a black void. From other, similar holes of darkness rose the misshapen gables of ancient roofs, with here and there a gaunt chimney pointing like a black finger at the murky sky.

What struck him at once was, Smith must have arranged his escape route in dry weather.

He could have had no idea of what the old tiles would be like after rain.

The roof might have been smeared with grease.

'Move along,' said a voice at his elbow, and, twisting his face round, he saw Biggles beside him, replacing the skylight.

'Move along,' muttered Biggles again. 'What are you waiting for?'

Ginger gasped. 'This is frightful,' he managed to get out. 'If I move, I shall slide off'

'You can't spend the rest of your life where you are,' said Biggles tersely. 'Get weaving.

If the police look through the skylight they'll see us.'

The next five minutes were to Ginger something in the nature of a nightmare. Spread-eagled flat on the roof he inched his way along, fingers pressing against the tiles for any slight projection which might help him. Once a piece of moss came away in his hand and he thought he was gone; and he did in fact slide a little way before a protruding nail gave him respite. His eyes never left the chimney stack which was his objective. He thought he would never reach it. When he did, he clawed at it as a drowning man might clutch at a lifebelt; and there he clung, panting, striving to steady a racing heart, watching the black shape that he knew was Biggles making the dreadful pa.s.sage. At the last moment, Biggles, too, started to slide; but with one arm round the chimney stack Ginger was able to give him a hand. For a nerve-shattering moment Ginger feared that the whole stack would come cras.h.i.+ng down under their combined weight as Biggles drew himself up. But then the immediate danger was past, and they both paused to recover from the shock of the ordeal.

'By thunder! That wasn't funny,' remarked Biggles, breathing heavily.

'Are you telling me?' panted Ginger.

'Let's get on or we shall miss the cart,' urged Biggles.

Ginger, it may be admitted, in the anxiety of the moment, had forgotten all about the cart.

Slowly and with infinite care Biggles pulled himself erect and put a hand in the chimney-pot. It came out holding the rope which, yard by yard, was withdrawn. Ginger guided the loose end over the edge of the gable, from which the chimney was an extension. What lay below he could not see, but according to Smith there was a flat roof. He stared down, but the starlight was dim with mist, or cloud, and he could see nothing distinctly.

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