by W E Johns
‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ said Biggles, imperturbably. ‘I have in my pocket a letter signed by the Chilean Secretary in London requesting the co-operation of Chilean officials in this country. Would you like to see it?’
The man’s aggressive manner abated somewhat. ‘Presently. What you do?’
‘I have come to make a search for two missing English plant collectors.’
The airport manager smiled unpleasantly. ‘You waste your time. They are dead.’
‘Have their bodies been found?’
‘No.’
‘Then how do you know they are dead?’
‘How can they be alive?’
‘That is what I’ve come to find out.’
The man nodded. ‘We will talk in my office. But first the Customs.’ Turning, he gave an order to his assistant, in his own language, to search the machine. Ginger knew enough Spanish to understand that.
‘Si, Señor Gontermann,’ acknowledged the young man respectfully. He was evidently the assistant manager, and had charge of Customs arrangements.
‘We shall of course obey your orders while we are here,’ said Biggles, evenly.
As they followed the manager to his office Biggles said softly to the others: ‘Pity about this. I’m afraid we’ve struck an unpleasant customer.’
‘What’s biting him?’ asked Algy, indignantly.
Biggles shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t know. If you asked me to make a guess I’d say, from his name, he’s a German, or of German parentage. He’s got a chip on his shoulder about something. Something to do with the war, maybe. Anyway, he has the say-so here, so keep civil tongues in your heads, no matter how he behaves, or we might as well go home— that’s if he’d let us.’
The pilots and crew of the liner came out followed by half a dozen or so passengers.
Having watched it take off and take up a course north-west they followed the manager to his office.
CHAPTER 3
DISTURBING NEWS
THERE is no need to narrate in detail the conversation, most of it argument, that went on for more than an hour in the airport manager’s office. While Gontermann did not exceed his official duties he was as difficult as was possible for a man in such a position to be. But, as Biggles said afterwards, he might have been worse had it not been for the letter provided by the Chilean office in London, which he showed with the rest of his credentials. Incidentally, as he was travelling purely as a civilian there was, of course, no mention of his association with the police of Great Britain.
Whether Gontermann behaved in this churlish fashion with every visiting aircraft, or whether it was simply because they were British, there was as yet no means of knowing. Gontermann knew about the missing botanists but made it clear from his manner that he couldn’t care less about them. However, he agreed to allow them to use the airfield for the purpose of their search, stipulating that they were not to take aerial photographs. He gave no reason for this, possibly because there wasn’t one, for national security could hardly come into the picture. The truth of the matter was, Ginger suspected, permission to use the airfield was only granted because it could not very well be refused, the travellers and their aircraft being in order according to International Aviation Regulations. It was used by few machines other than the regular service of the LAN (Linea Aerea Nacional) the government-owned company which operated from Santiago, the capital, in the north.
There was trouble about the weapons they carried. Biggles knew there would be. Gontermann wanted to impound them. He would, he said with studied politeness, give them a receipt for them and release them on their departure. Biggles argued that they had been allowed to pass through Brazilian and Argentine airports, and while he did not expect to use them he would feel safer for some sort of protection. In the event of mechanical trouble with the aircraft they might have to shoot something for food. In the end Gontermann said he would allow them to keep the guns provided import duty was paid on them. To this Biggles agreed.
There was another argument about the digging tools, the existence of which was reported by the young Chilean under-manager and Customs officer when he presented his list of contents. Biggles pointed out that should they find the dead bodies of the missing men they would have to bury them. He also said that as it was unlikely they would be able to see the bodies from the air they would make landings if suitable places could be found; in which case, should the machine become bogged, they would need tools to free it. Gontermann was obviously suspicious, and declared that as the visitors had not applied for a prospector’s licence they were forbidden to explore for minerals. However, again he conceded the point, the reason being that there was no law against the importation of such tools.
The matter of their stay being settled, in an atmosphere that was anything but pleasant the party broke up, Gontermann getting into his car without another word and driving off towards the town.
Biggles breathed a sigh of relief and turned to the young Chilean officer who had watched the proceedings with an expression that suggested sympathy for the visitors. ‘Is he always as difficult as that?’ he asked, in Spanish.
The officer, smiling sadly, replied in English. ‘It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘The nationality of the visitors.’
‘Meaning he doesn’t like Englishmen?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He’s a German, isn’t he?’
‘No, he’s a Chilean, but his father, who married a local woman, was a German sailor who had served in the Imperial German Navy.’
‘Perhaps that explains it.’
‘He’s a difficult man for anyone to get on with. He is much alone and spends all his spare time sailing in a little yacht which he keeps in the town. But don’t worry. The staff here are good fellows and they’ll give you service. They don’t like him, either. He is what you would call a bit of a bully. You were unlucky to arrive to-day. He only came because it was the day for the big machine you saw to come.’
‘Will he be here tomorrow?’
‘I think not. I expect he will go sailing.’
‘What’s his Christian name?’
‘Hugo.’
‘And yours, if I may ask?’
‘Juan Vendez. I am always on duty, not that there is much to do. Few people come here, sometimes a prospector or a salesman, but mostly agents for wool and mutton. For the outward journey it may be an official going home on leave or a man who has had enough of the place going back to his own country.’
‘How is it that you speak English so well?’ inquired Biggles, curiously.
‘I lived in England for a year, also France and Germany, to learn the languages necessary for my work. This is an international port, you know, with many foreigners.’
‘Do you like the place?’
‘No. I come from the north where it is warm; but everyone in the Customs and Excise Service must take a turn of duty here because this is not a popular station and no one would volunteer for it.’
‘I can believe that,’ murmured Ginger.
‘I have only a few months left to do, then I return to Santiago.’
‘Tell me, how can I get to the town?’ asked Biggles. ‘Is there a regular conveyance of any sort?’
‘No. With so few passengers such a service wouldn’t pay. One or two taxis may come out to meet incoming machines on the days they are due to arrive. I could telephone your hotel and they would send a car out for you.’
‘We haven’t fixed up anywhere yet.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I shall be going home presently and will take you in the car I use to go to and fro.’
‘Can you recommend an hotel—not too expensive?’
‘I know the very place that should suit you. It is small but clean, and is run by a woman from Scotland whose husband came here to farm sheep but was killed in an accident.’
‘That sounds like our cup of tea,’ said Biggles. ‘Thank you. That’s very kind of you. By the way, do
you know anything about the two English plant collectors who came here, went off in a boat and did not return?’
‘I only know what was common gossip at the time. The matter is now forgotten. It is assumed they are dead. The man you should see is Mr Scott, a ship’s chandler near the new mole. Well, they still call it new although it was built in 1927. He will know as much as anyone because it was he who hired out the boat. Naturally, he was not pleased at losing it.’
‘We’ll go and see him,’ said Biggles.
Presently the amiable young officer drove them to the town, and while the absence of trees gave the place a somewhat forlorn aspect Ginger found the streets surprisingly clean with many excellent shops on both sides of the broad main thoroughfare. There was a uniformity about the houses and he saw no large ones.
Vendez dropped them off at the hotel he had suggested, and there they were made welcome and provided with the accommodation they needed by a buxom and rather severe lady who had not lost her native accent. Very soon they were being served in a spotless dining-room with man-sized beef steaks, which met with general approval, for the keen atmosphere had given them all an appetite. Afterwards, over coffee and a cigarette, Biggles fell quiet.
‘What’s on your mind?’ asked Algy, after a while.
‘I’m thinking about this fellow Gontermann,’ answered Biggles, pensively. ‘We shall have to watch our step with him. He’d only need an excuse to start trouble. Frankly, I find myself wondering if his father had any connexion with the Dresden when she was hiding hereabouts. This man we saw this morning would know all about that affair and it might account for his dislike not only of us but of all Englishmen.’
‘In other words, old boy, you think he may be suffering from the same complaint that caused dear Erich to get all worked up about the British?’ guessed Bertie.
‘Something of the sort. But the reason doesn’t really matter. He dislikes us, and we shall do well to remember that.’
‘I was thinking farther than that,’ put in Ginger. ‘Could this passion for sailing, as Vendez told us, have anything to do with the Dresden?’
‘In what way?’
‘He may, or his father may, have heard a whisper about the bullion the Dresden was carrying; in which case he might be looking for it.’
‘I suppose that’s possible.’
‘If I’m right, he wouldn’t take kindly to the idea of other people, which means ourselves, prowling about the islands for any reason whatsoever. Apart from the gold, we might wonder what he was doing. Is that why he was so disagreeable this morning?’
Biggles drew on his cigarette. ‘Could be. We should soon know if you’re right.’
‘Are we doing any more flying to-day?’ asked Algy.
‘No. We need a day off. I think the first thing is to have a word with this Mr Scott who hired Carter and Barlow their boat. If anyone has any ideas of what may have happened to them he should be the man. Let’s walk along.’ Biggles got up.
Without any great difficulty they found the ship’s chandler’s establishment with its masses of cordage and the reek of tar. It was, as Vendez had told them, near the mole, where two rust-streaked refrigerator ships, one of them flying the Red Ensign, were busy loading from an extensive freezing plant innumerable carcases of frozen mutton. The odd thought struck Ginger that he might one day, after he had arrived home, find himself eating a chop from one of those same dead sheep.
They went into the shop and made themselves known to the proprietor whose accent again revealed the land of his birth. Having explained what they had come to do Biggles asked Mr Scott if he could give him any information that would assist them in their search.
Mr Scott soon made it clear that this was a sore subject with him, although he was willing to tell them as much as he knew. The two men, he assured them, must have been out of their minds, and he must have been out of his mind to let them have his boat, a ten-ton ketch named the Seaspray, fitted with a small Petter engine. He had suggested they took a pilot with them but they declined on account of the extra expense. They had said they were both experienced yachtsmen and had no fear of not being able to handle the boat. To handle sail at the Isle of Wight was one thing, declared Mr Scott, bitterly; to handle it here was another matter altogether. However, as the men were dead he wouldn’t say unkind things about them.
‘Why are you so sure they must be dead?’ asked Biggles, although as a matter of fact he was of the same opinion.
‘How could they be alive?’ was the reply. ‘They haven’t come back. They had stores for a month, or six weeks at the outside. They couldn’t live on nothing but sea birds even if they had any means of catching them. There’s nothing else except mussels, and there aren’t too many of them.’
‘They didn’t give you any idea of where they were going?’
‘None at all. I doubt if they knew themselves. They just said they were going to cruise among the islands. The weather was fair at the time. They said if it got bad they’d come back.’
‘And did it get bad?’
‘Of course it did. It always does. I told them it would. It never stays fair for long. But they were so cocksure of themselves, the poor fools. I should have known better than to let them go.’
‘What do you supposed happened to them?’
‘A score of things could have happened. They might have been swamped, or capsized trying to get ashore somewhere; or maybe crushed flat by growlers. Places like Icy Reach are always full of ‘em.’
‘Growlers?’
‘Aye. Lumps of ice the size of a hoose, or larger, that break off the glaciers and fall into the water. That’s always happening. You’ll hear it if you don’t see it.’
‘You know what we’re hoping to do, Mr Scott. Can you give me any advice?’
‘Aye. The same as I gave Carter and Barlow. Go home. You don’t know what you’re taking on.’
‘I can’t do that without making an effort. I was sent here to do a job and if it’s humanly possible I shall do it.’
‘Have it your own way.’
‘Are we likely to see any natives?’
‘Why?’
‘They might be able to give us some information.’
‘You might see some begging-canoe Indians, as we call ‘em, in Indian Reach. A few of ‘em hang about there hoping passing ships will throw ‘em some food. They need it, poor devils, but don’t give ‘em anything.’
Biggles looked astonished. ‘Why not?’
‘Because if you do you’ll never get rid of ‘em. The women and kids wouldn’t get any of it, anyway. The men would scoff the lot. They’re a dirty, selfish lot.’
‘They’re not dangerous?’
‘They haven’t much chance to be.’
‘If they’re so badly off why don’t they come here?’
‘Scared, I reckon.’
‘Why should they be scared?’
‘That’s an old story. Years ago, when people started raising sheep, the Indians, who had never seen as much food walking about in their lives, started to help themselves to the sheep, with the result that they were hunted like wolves and nearly exterminated. I suppose they haven’t forgotten it.’
‘So that was it. Tell me this. Had your boat, the Seaspray, any distinguishing features that would enable us to recognize her if we happened to find any wreckage?’
‘Not much. She was painted white and had dark red canvas. The fores’l had been patched a bit with a lighter red. She was the only craft here with sails that colour.’
‘One last question. Can you think of any reason why Hugo Gontermann, the airport manager, should have treated us as if we were a gang of crooks when we landed this morning?’
Mr Scott pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know him well. He seems to be a cross-grained fellow by nature. Perhaps because he comes from German stock he has a particular grievance against anybody British. It was before my time, but the story here is his father served in the Dresden, which as you may know, ran in here to hide after the
Battle of the Falklands. You’ve heard of that, no doubt. Gontermann’s mother was a local girl and he was born and brought up here. During Hitler’s war he disappeared and someone told me he’d gone to Germany to enlist. It seems he got in the Air Force, and had become a station commander, or something of that sort. Anyhow, when he came back after the war he seemed to know a lot about planes, and that, with his knowledge of the weather and water here, got him the job at the airport. He was the right man for it. He keeps mostly to himself. Goes sailing a lot on his own. He’s a good sailor, and what’s more important, he knows these waters as well as any living man. Some people reckon he was a German spy, but I don’t know anything about that, except his sympathies are German. But that doesn’t make him a spy. You’ll see his boat, Der Wespe, tied up at the wharf.’
‘Thank you Mr Scott. Now I understand, although why he should hold the war against us I don’t know. After all, if his father served in the Dresden he must have helped to send six thousand British blue-jackets to the bottom at Coronel.’
‘Aye. I’d think that way myself.’
‘Is that all you can tell us?’
‘Yes, except don’t trust the weather for five minutes. A squall can come from anywhere. If you stay here you’ll see what I mean.’
As there was nothing more to be said, having thanked the Scot for his assistance Biggles led the way out. ‘So now we know why Gontermann didn’t greet us with a smile,’ he remarked, as they walked on. ‘The fact that his father served in the Dresden is probably a coincidence. As far as I know it was the only German battleship that came here. At all events, it explains how Gontermann happens to be here. If he served in the Luftwaffe he’ll know all there is to know about flying, so we’d better keep that in mind.’
On the way back to the hotel Biggles stopped at a garage and bought, very cheaply, a second-hand and rather dilapidated old Ford car which he said should be good enough to run them to and from the aerodrome.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said, as he drove it home, ‘we’ll have a look round from topsides to see if things are as bad as they say they are.’