Biggles at World's End

by W E Johns

  ‘I did. Either the wind or the rain must have loosened a lot of ice on the moraine of the glacier and it’s falling into the water. All we want now is for these conditions to last half an hour. That should see us through; and I don’t mind telling you I shan’t be sorry to see the last of this abominable place.’

  Ginger looked inquiringly at Biggles. ‘You speak as if you had doubts about the weather holding?’

  ‘I have a feeling it was a rising temperature that caused those clouds to lift. It doesn’t feel to me as cold as it was the last time we were here.’

  ‘It’d be a relief to have it a bit warmer.’

  ‘I’m not so sure of that,’ replied Biggles, vaguely.

  Nothing more was said, for the Gadfly was now low, and still nosing its way down to the bay where they had made their previous landing on gold island. There was a lot of ice in it, but it appeared to have been piled up against the rocks that formed the far arm of the horseshoe.

  ‘Good,’ said Biggles. ‘I think it’s clear for us to get down.’

  ‘The water’s a bit choppy.’

  ‘Nothing to hurt us. We may bump a bit.’

  After a trial run Biggles took the machine in. There was a rather nasty splash as it touched down and a lot of spray as it taxied on to the beach. Lowering the wheels Biggles ran on up the sand, clear of the water, and switched off a few yards from where the gold was alleged to have been buried.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, briskly. ‘Let’s get to work. We’ve no time to waste.’ To Bertie he shouted: ‘Let’s have the spade and the crow-bar.’

  Ginger jumped down and stood looking at the black sand and the rocks behind it. ‘Something’s happened since we were here last,’ he averred. ‘It looks as if there’s been a bit of a landslide. You can see the tracks where the rocks rolled down.’

  Biggles looked. ‘You’re right,’ he agreed. ‘But there aren’t so many isolated lumps of rock that we should have any trouble in finding the right one. I think this must be it.’

  A few minutes work probing with the crow-bar made it clear that he had been mistaken.

  ‘With more rock coming down, the one that was isolated may not be isolated now,’ suggested Ginger.

  ‘Oh, here, I say, old boy, have a heart,’ protested Bertie. ‘Don’t tell me we’ve got to shift all this bally stuff.’

  Biggles looked grim. ‘Remember what I told you. It’s always the same with this infernal business of treasure hunting. The stuff is never where it’s supposed to be. Well, it’s no use standing here goofing at it. Let’s carry on.’

  They carried on, working feverishly, probing and digging. Once Ginger, using the crow-bar, thought he had found what they were looking for, but the spade soon showed that it was only a rock under the sand.

  Biggles fumed. ‘This is the last time I’m having anything to do with this sort of nonsense,’ he swore.

  ‘It certainly is a sweat,’ muttered Bertie.

  ‘That’s what I don’t like about it.’

  ‘What don’t you like about it, old boy?’

  ‘Sweat. It’s getting warmer, and if you don’t know what that’s likely to produce it’s time you did.’

  ‘Had it turned colder we should have had ice on the wings before now,’ argued Ginger.

  ‘Not with salt water. Try this one.’ He pointed to a rock somewhat nearer to the landslide.

  Ginger drove in the crow-bar. It struck a solid object a few inches under the sand. ‘There’s something here,’ he said, without any great enthusiasm, having done the same thing before to find only rock.

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said Biggles shortly. ‘We shall have Gontermann along presently and when he sees what we’re doing that will start something. Give me that spade, Bertie.’

  He drove the edge into the sand, forced it right in with the heel of his shoe and turned it over. There was a gleam of yellow. Stooping, he pulled out a bar of gold. ‘Thank goodness,’ he muttered, throwing it back and beginning to fill in the hole.

  ‘Are you going to cover it up?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to keep a piece for luck?’

  ‘Not a sausage. I never want to see the stuff again.’

  ‘But wait a minute, old boy,’ protested Bertie. ‘Can’t I have a piece?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I’ve always wanted a bar of gold.’

  ‘You’re better without it. This doesn’t belong to us, anyway.’

  ‘Not one little piece?’ Bertie’s voice took on a hurt, plaintive note.

  ‘Not one. Now help to smooth this sand over to leave no trace of what we’ve been doing. Then we’ll get away.’

  This operation was still in progress, with everyone working fast, when, without the slightest warning, the fog came. It did not come from anywhere in particular. It was one of those fogs, or ground mists, that form in the air, everywhere, simultaneously, usually as the result of a sudden change of temperature.

  Biggles started for the aircraft but stopped half-way. ‘No use,’ he said. ‘This is what I was afraid of.’

  ‘We might just do it,’ urged Ginger.

  ‘No. This is no place for blind flying. We’d only have to run into a growler and that would be that. Better to play safe. It may not last. In any case it would be crazy to go leaving signs that we’d been digging. Let’s finish tidying up.’

  This did not take long, but by the end of that short time the fog, far from dispersing, had become a cold, white, opaque mass of vapour, reducing visibility to a few feet.

  ‘This is lovely,’ growled Bertie, wiping moisture from his eyebrows. ‘Gets my bally glass all steamed up.’

  Biggles walked to the machine.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Ginger, looking surprised.

  ‘Move it over the gold so that it’ll look as if any marks on the sand were made by the wheels, or by us, getting in and out.’

  ‘For Gontermann’s benefit, should he come?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Bertie chuckled. ‘Jolly good. I’ve heard of the goose that laid golden eggs but I’d bet my last bob this is the first aircraft to lay gold bricks.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘We’ll leave the old hen to sit on ‘em.’ He became serious. ‘Really, there’s nothing funny about this. What upsets me more than anything is, if we don’t go back today Vendez will think we’ve let him down. I’d hate him to think that, after his decent behaviour to us.’

  ‘You think we might be here all night?’ queried Ginger.

  ‘You can see what I can see.’

  ‘That’s a nice prospect. What do we want to shift this muck?’

  ‘Wind would do it. Which reminds me, we’d better peg the machine down in case of accidents.’

  This was done. There was still no sign of the Wespe. Biggles said he thought Gontermann might have difficulty in finding the bay. He, too, would be affected by the fog.

  Darkness began to close in. All they could do was pace up and down, partly to keep warm, for the clammy mist was bitterly cold, and partly to cover their impatience. A sullen silence seemed to settle over the island, for now the wind had dropped altogether the water had gone dead calm. The only sound was the wheezing, cracking and crunching of ice at the far end of the bay.

  ‘It begins to look as if Gontermann isn’t coming after all,’ said Biggles at last. ‘We may as well go inside and brew some coffee. It may not be quite as cold in the cabin as it is outside.’

  They trooped into the machine and closed the door.

  Darkness fell, cold, dark, and menacing with unseen dangers.

  That night went on Ginger’s mental calendar as one of those never to be forgotten. He had passed nights in greater danger, but never in such acute physical discomfort. It was the cold, the cold and the inky blackness. The fog seeped in through every cranny so that it was soon as thick inside the machine as it was outside. It had a penetrating quality, as fog sometimes has, that seemed to eat into his very bo
nes. The only relief came when the Primus stove was lighted to make coffee; but this could only be done at long intervals because there was a limit to the amount of fuel they carried. Then they crouched round the hissing burner to make the most of the heat it gave, looking, as Bertie once remarked, like witches round a devil’s cauldron.

  For the rest they could only sit huddled together for mutual warmth waiting for the dawn. In these circumstances the night seemed eternal. Nothing could be done. Absolutely nothing. Ginger dozed uneasily, but anything like real sleep was out of the question. Once in a while he nodded from sheer weariness, but the very act of falling asleep seemed to wake him up with a start. Then the knowledge of where he was and what was happening would banish sleep for another long spell of misery.

  There were one or two desultory attempts at conversation but they soon died from lack of enthusiasm. The only things that really mattered were warmth and daylight.

  ‘How is it,’ asked Bertie on one occasion, ‘that we always seem to click for these outlandish places?’

  ‘Because nobody else would be daft enough to go to ‘em,’ muttered Ginger.

  ‘The real reason is,’ Biggles pointed out, ‘this sort of thing —I mean this gold hunt—could only happen at an outlandish place. Had the gold been dumped anywhere near civilization it would have been recovered long ago.’

  ‘Had this lot been shoved overboard on a silver strand in a sunny clime we wouldn’t have been asked to fetch it,’ grumbled Ginger.

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ replied Biggles.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Bertie. ‘How about loading up some of those lumps of metal, flying off somewhere, selling ‘em and then settling down for the rest of our days in a nice warm climate?’

  ‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you,’ asserted Biggles, coldly.

  After that the conversation lapsed.

  CHAPTER 14

  BATTLE OF WITS

  AT long last another day announced its approach by filling the windows of the Gadfly with a wan grey light. Slowly it crept into the cabin until there was enough to enable those inside it to see what they were doing. No one spoke. Unwashed, unshaven, hair tousled, clothes rumpled, no one was in the mood for conversation. Bertie lit the Primus and produced the coffee pot. Biggles opened the door, and Ginger looked with dismay at the wet, colourless vapour, that drifted in.

  ‘So the fog’s still with us,’ observed Biggles, unnecessarily.

  ‘Why let the bally stuff in here?’ said Bertie. ‘Have a heart. We’ve enough already.’

  Biggles closed the door.

  ‘What are we going to do about the beastly stuff?’ inquired Bertie.

  ‘Nothing,’ answered Biggles. ‘I mean, there’s nothing we can do about leaving, if that’s what’s on your mind. One thing we might do is collect some driftwood and make a fire outside to get the chill out of our bones. The place would look a little more cheerful.’

  Ginger moved towards the door.

  ‘Don’t leave the beach or you may not be able to find your way back to the machine,’ warned Biggles.

  Half an hour later they were all sitting on the beach round a wood fire making the best of a not very appetizing breakfast from the emergency rations, the main item of which was biscuits, damped and toasted, and then smeared with canned butter and jam.

  Gradually the fog had turned from grey to white, and while it was still thick it was a little less dense than it had been. The sea had settled to an oily calm but the ice could be heard growling at the opposite end of the bay. None could be seen, and it may have been this that brought from Bertie a suggestion about trying to get off.

  But Biggles would not have it. ‘We don’t know what ice may have drifted into the fairway during the night. One small growler would be enough to tear the machine wide open. Nor have we any idea how high this muck goes. Nor, if it comes to that, do we know how far it extends. I imagine it’s general over the whole area, in which case there could be no landing at the aerodrome even if we could find it. I’m staying here. I can think of better ways of dying than barging head-on into a lump of ice at a hundred miles an hour. Without a breath of wind and not a ripple on the water to help us we should need a long run to unstick. Don’t be impatient. This can’t last for ever. We could hold out for a fortnight if necessary before having to resort to cockles and mussels.’

  The mist continued to thin a little, but very slowly.

  It was about an hour later that a sound, one as eerie as Ginger had ever heard, came to them through the all-enveloping fog. It was the distant murmur of human voices, muffled as if coming through walls.

  ‘That must be Gontermann, trying to find the island,’ said Biggles. ‘Keep your voices down. There’s no need to tell him we’re here, or give him a guide to the beach.’

  ‘He’s bound to find us eventually.’

  ‘He probably will. Which reminds me. We needn’t advertise the fact that we’ve been digging by leaving the tools about. We shan’t want them again. Ginger, you might take them and dump them in one of those pools between the rocks.’

  Ginger complied. By the time he had done this and returned there was no longer any doubt about a boat being in the offing. An engine had been started, and the throb of it, although muffled by fog, came plainly to their ears.

  ‘That couldn’t be anyone but Gontermann,’ declared Ginger. ‘The Wespe is the only craft within miles.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘He’s determined to get here; but I’d say he’s far from happy, groping about in this pea-soup.’

  The sounds came nearer, then for a while receded. The engine was stopped.

  ‘He’s afraid of getting tangled up in that ice at the far end of the bay,’ went on Biggles, shaking drops of water from his eyelashes. ‘He must be able to hear it so he’ll know it’s there.’

  They listened.

  ‘He’s coming back this way,’ remarked Ginger, as the voices, accompanied by a certain amount of splashing, increased in volume.

  ‘It sounds as if they’re in the dinghy, towing the Wespe,’ guessed Biggles. ‘They’ll find the beach presently.’

  ‘If they know we’re here why don’t the silly blighters give a hail?’ queried Bertie.

  ‘Maybe their idea is to take us by surprise. Having seen us come down and not having heard us take off they must know we’re still here.’

  ‘What are we going to do, old boy, when they roll up—if you see what I mean?’

  Biggles shrugged and lit a cigarette. ‘We’ll see how they shape. They may not necessarily be hostile. If they act friendly so will we.’

  ‘What excuse are you going to make for coming back here?’ Ginger wanted to know.

  ‘We’re under no compulsion to make excuses for anything. As far as I know we haven’t broken any regulation.’

  ‘Suppose they get tough?’

  ‘If that’s how they want it that’s all right with me.’

  ‘It sounds as if they’ve found the beach and are dragging the dinghy up on it,’ put in Ginger.

  ‘Which means they must have dropped the Wespe’s anchor. No doubt they’ll take a line ashore to hold her fast and enable them to find her again. They could easily lose her in this murk.’

  For a little while there was silence. Then, suddenly, a voice spoke, close at hand. Three figures loomed darkly in the fog. They emerged, stopped when they saw the party sitting on the sand, and then came on again. They were, as expected, Gontermann and his two associates, one of whom carried a spade, and the other an iron rod.

  ‘Good morning,’ greeted Biggles, pleasantly. ‘Lost your way?’

  Gontermann advanced, his expression non-committal. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I might ask you the same question. What do you think I’m doing?’

  Gontermann walked right up, face impassive. ‘Why do you stay here?’

  ‘Isn’t that rather a silly question, coming from an airport manager? I’m waiting for this infernal fog to clear so that I
can get airborne. When that happens you won’t see me for spray. Like a cup of coffee?’

  ‘No—thank you. You came here yesterday.’

  ‘Quite right. But that wasn’t entirely a matter of choice. What else could I do with this stuff about; and, as I imagine, the airfield blacked out.’

  ‘You say you came here to look for Carter and Barlow. You find them. So. Why do you come back?’

  ‘To pick up some stuff they left behind.’

  ‘Did you find it?’

  ‘We have found one or two things I’m sure they’ll be glad to have.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Books. Botanical specimens.’

  ‘You think I believe that?’ A sneer crept into Gontermann’s voice.

  ‘Please yourself.’

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘You can see them when you get back. They’re in Vendez’ office. They were wet, and he very kindly offered to dry them.’

  Ginger stiffened as Gontermann’s hand went in a side pocket; but it was only to produce his pipe. Having lighted it he went on: ‘Suppose we stop beating about the bushes, as you English say. Where is it?’

  Biggles’ eyebrows went up in feigned surprise. ‘Where is what?’

  ‘You know what I speak about.’

  ‘I’m no good at riddles.’

  Gontermann hesitated. Then, under pressure, out it came. ‘The gold.’

  ‘Gold! What gold?’

  ‘So you pretend you not know.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ invited Biggles. ‘I like stories about gold, and we’ve time on our hands. Go ahead.’

  Gontermann’s face set in harder lines. ‘You come here to look for gold,’ he challenged.

  ‘When I go prospecting I’ll choose a place with a more comfortable climate than this one.’

  Actually, Biggles knew this was mere procrastination. Sooner or later the cards would have to be put on the table, but he hoped to delay this until the weather cleared and a take-off became possible. Gontermann went on: ‘Carter and Barlow found gold.’

  ‘That must have been nice for them. Is that why your friends tried to kill them?’

  There was no answer.