Biggles at World's End

by W E Johns

  ‘Carter and Barlow were genuine plant collectors,’ asserted Biggles. ‘The last thing they had in their minds was gold.’

  ‘That may be. But they find it.’

  ‘How do you know? Did they tell you?’

  ‘We find the place where they dig it up. They leave one piece behind so we know.’

  ‘That was careless of them. I can tell you this; they had no gold when I found them.’

  ‘They tell you where they put it. That is why you come back.’

  ‘How much of this alleged gold is there?’

  ‘A great much.’

  ‘And you think I’ve come here to fetch it?’

  ‘So.’

  ‘Then you know less about aviation than I would have supposed, considering the position you hold. This craft of mine is an aeroplane, not a battleship. Would I be such a fool as to knock a hole in the bottom by overloading it?’

  ‘Perhaps you make many journeys,’ countered Gontermann, shrewdly. ‘Is the gold in your plane?’

  ‘Go and look. You’re welcome to all the gold you can find in it.’

  Gontermann strode to the machine.

  The thought that struck Ginger was how right Biggles had been in refusing to allow Bertie to have one of the gold bars. Had he done so it would now be found and that would have told its own story. He could barely repress a smile when he saw Gontermann standing on the spot where the gold was buried. It was, in fact, only a few inches under his feet, had he but known it. He soon came back.

  ‘Now are you satisfied?’ inquired Biggles, evenly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Dear me! What an awkward fellow you are.’ Remembering something Biggles went on: ‘Oh, by the way, there are some people in Punta Arenas asking for you.’

  ‘What people?’

  ‘A Russian whaler has put in. Someone came ashore looking for you.’

  ‘How you know this?’

  ‘When I was in the town yesterday I called on Mr Scott, the chandler. The Seaspray belonged to him, as you know. There is a question of compensation for its loss. When I mentioned the Russian ship Mr Scott volunteered the information that a man had come ashore asking for you. Mr Scott may have thought I’d seen you somewhere. The ship was still there when I took off so I presume it’s waiting for you.’

  This seemed to give Gontermann food for thought, and for a minute or two Ginger hoped he would go, and so put an end to a situation that was becoming more and more difficult. Apparently Gontermann considered this, for he studied the weather thoughtfully. But, of course, travelling conditions were nearly as dangerous for the Wespe as they were for the aircraft and if it was departure that he had in mind he dismissed it. He came back into the argument, now on a different tack.

  Speaking in a false or genuine confidential tone he said: ‘A long time ago much gold was buried on this island.’

  ‘But I saw you digging on the island where I found Carter!’

  ‘I think the gold might have been moved to there.’

  ‘By Carter and Barlow?’

  ‘So.’

  ‘You couldn’t find it, I gather.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you’ve decided it must still be here.’

  ‘So.’

  ‘Well, go ahead and look for it. You won’t find it standing here talking to me. Would you like us to help you?’

  ‘No. I think you know all about this.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Because when you come here you have tools for digging.’

  ‘I told you why I had brought them. I declared them. I didn’t try to hide them.’

  ‘Where are they? They are not in the plane now.’

  ‘I decided I wouldn’t be likely to need them after all, so seeing no reason to carry unnecessary weight I got rid of them. We certainly won’t need them now because, as I’ve told you, as soon as this fog lifts we’re going home.’

  ‘You go because you have found the gold.’

  Biggles made a gesture of impatience. ‘Have it that way if you like. Does the gold belong to you?’

  ‘That is not the thing.’

  ‘It seems to me to have a lot to do with it. If it isn’t yours you’ve no right to touch it. However, you do what you like. Go ahead and dig.’

  ‘There is much gold; enough for both of us,’ suggested Gontermann, slyly.

  ‘I don’t want the stuff. My only concern is for the weather to clear so that I can get to a more salubrious climate.’

  Gontermann’s manner changed. ‘You do not leave here till you show me where you put the gold.’

  ‘Are you telling me what I can do?’

  ‘Yes.’ In a flash Gontermann had whipped out a revolver. ‘Anyone who goes near that plane will be shot.’

  The other men also produced revolvers.

  Biggles smiled cynically. ‘It’s time you had your head examined, Gontermann. Where do you think this sort of behaviour will get you?’

  ‘Many people come down this Strait but not all go back,’ was the threatening reply.

  ‘Okay. Have it that way if you like. I can’t leave while this fog holds us down, anyway. When I’m ready to go I shall go, and you’d be foolish to try to stop me.’

  ‘Give me your guns.’

  ‘I will not.’

  ‘You realize I can shoot all of you and sink your plane and nobody knows?’

  ‘Try it,’ invited Biggles. ‘You may find I can shoot faster and straighter than you.’

  Gontermann may have believed this. At all events he hesitated, perhaps wondering if Biggles really meant what he said or whether he was bluffing. In any case it is one thing to shoot a man in the heat of a fight, but another matter to shoot one in cold blood, sitting on the ground smoking a cigarette. And while the position remained as static as if they had all been statues, Ginger thought he heard, somewhere out in the fog, a curious sound. Gontermann half-turned his head as if he had heard it, too. It was certainly not the crunching of ice.

  ‘Don’t do in a hurry something you might regret,’ said Biggles. ‘What good would shooting us do you, anyhow? Would it help you to find the gold?’

  Still Gontermann did nothing, and for this, as much as anything, Ginger thought, Biggles’ casual offhand manner was responsible.

  Again came the sound out of the fog. It was rather like the chattering of a monkey.

  Still nobody stirred, Gontermann apparently unable to make up his mind what to do, and Biggles refraining from precipitating conflict by any sort of movement. Ginger was well aware that it needed only one threatening action to set guns blazing; and while he waited, tense, there came from somewhere in the bay a curious medley of noises, bumps, scrapes and a cry. He didn’t know what to make of these.

  Biggles guessed. ‘Instead of wasting your ammunition on us I fancy you’d better save it to prevent those Indians from looting your boat. I’d say they’ve just bumped into it. Finding it empty they’ll help themselves.’

  Gontermann swore luridly in German. Then he spoke rapidly to his companions in the same language. They turned about and disappeared at a run into the mist.

  ‘Put that gun away,’ said Biggles curtly. ‘You couldn’t shoot the three of us without being shot yourself.’ He got up and brushed sand from his trousers. While he was doing this there came from the direction the two men had taken a shot, shouts and a splash.

  ‘Those friends of yours are too handy with their guns,’ remarked Biggles, coldly. ‘If they’ve killed an Indian there’s likely to be trouble.’

  Gontermann glared, and without a word strode away down the beach to vanish in the murk.

  Biggles lit another cigarette. ‘That was touch and go,’ he said. ‘He lost his nerve when it came to the pinch.’

  Ginger breathed a deep breath of relief. ‘Now what?’ he inquired. ‘What happens next?’

  ‘Ask me something easier,’ replied Biggles. ‘As we can’t get off yet we might as well stay where we are. I’m not leaving the machine, that’s d
efinite.’

  CHAPTER 15

  STALEMATE

  SOME minutes passed. There was a certain amount of confused noise in the direction taken by Gontermann, then silence.

  ‘Hadn’t we better be doing something while we have the opportunity?’ inquired Ginger, anxiously.

  ‘If you can think of something to serve a useful purpose you’re cleverer than I am,’ answered Biggles, lugubriously.

  ‘But look here, old boy,’ requested Bertie. ‘If we sit here and do nothing, and they come back, we shall be on the same spot as we were just now.’

  ‘Not quite. The cards are now on the table for everyone to see. They’ve seen our hand and we’ve seen theirs. Gontermann is pretty sure we know where the gold is. He’s equally sure it’s on this island. We know he’s prepared to resort to force to get it. He’s bogged down by this fog just as much as we are. I don’t care how well he knows these waters—he’ll think twice before he tries to get back to Punta Arenas in these conditions, although I have a feeling he’d like to go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that Russian ship has come in. He looked worried for a moment when I told him it was there, which leads me to think it’s part of the set-up. It’s my guess that when Gontermann was in Europe he spoke to someone, either in Germany or Russia, about the gold, and the possibilities of getting it. Gold is gold in any language. Now they’re after it. At first I thought Gontermann’s angle was purely personal, but what with those two men he has with him, who might be anything, and the arrival of that whaler, I’ve changed my mind. He’s got someone behind him. No doubt he’ll get a share of the treasure if it’s found. He was expecting that whaler. As you may have noticed, he wasn’t in the least surprised when I told him it was there.’

  ‘But dash it all, old boy, the gold’s British,’ protested Bertie.

  ‘Chile could claim it as it’s on her territory. Germany could claim it as the spoils of war. We know it’s ours, but how are we going to prove it? This looks like a case of possession being nine parts of the law. Who finds it will keep it. You certainly won’t make Russia or Eastern Germany cough it up, if they get their hands on it, without starting a war. Gold and trouble go hand in hand, for which reason I’m beginning to loathe the stuff.’

  ‘While we sit here nattering they may come back and settle the matter by sniping at us,’ said Ginger, practically.

  ‘They may try that,’ conceded Biggles. ‘All we can do to prevent it is keep our eyes and ears wide open. One thing is definite. I’m not leaving this machine for them to sabotage, as given the opportunity I’m pretty sure they would, to make quite certain of keeping us here.’

  ‘You don’t feel like trying to get away while we have the chance?’

  ‘No. Only in the most desperate circumstances would I attempt anything so crazy. To take off blind, knowing that in front of us there might be ice, the Wespe, and Indians in their canoes? Oh no. That would be asking for it. Things haven’t reached that state yet.’

  ‘They’re getting mighty close to it,’ said Ginger, moodily.

  Twenty minutes passed with no change in the position. Then he got up, saying: ‘I’m going to get some wood before the fire burns out. I’d rather be shot than slowly freeze to death.’

  ‘Be careful what you do,’ warned Biggles. ‘I doubt if Gontermann would shoot you if you met him but I wouldn’t put it past him in the mood he’s in. His two pals are more dangerous. I can’t work out who they are. There hasn’t even been a line on their nationality.’

  ‘They speak German, and one of ‘em at least speaks English,’ reminded Ginger.

  ‘I’d say they’re both seamen, and most sailors pick up a smattering of the languages of the countries they visit.’

  Ginger moved off.

  ‘If the fog starts to disperse hurry back,’ ordered Biggles.

  ‘Okay.’

  Ginger was away nearly half an hour, and the others were getting worried when he returned with a load of driftwood under his arms. He threw some on the fire.

  ‘Did you see anything of them?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘I’ve been watching them.’

  ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘Trying to find the gold. At least, they’re prodding the beach with that rod, and they seem to be doing it systematically.’

  ‘Could you hear what they were talking about?’

  ‘No. I could hear them but it meant nothing to me. I think they were speaking in Russian. Anyhow, I couldn’t understand it.’

  ‘If the blighters go on prodding long enough they’ll come to it,’ said Bertie. ‘If we refused to let ‘em prod under the machine it would be as good as telling ‘em it was there.’

  ‘They’re working this way,’ informed Ginger.

  Presently the voices of the men could be heard through the fog. After a while the vague figure of Gontermann loomed up. Visibility had improved to about twenty yards. He looked towards them.

  ‘Don’t come any closer,’ called Biggles.

  ‘So you are afraid—huh?’

  ‘After your big talk just now I’m not having you near this aeroplane.’ As he finished speaking Biggles catapulted himself sideways, shouting: ‘Watch out!’

  He was just in time. There was a red flash and a crash, and a bullet spurted sand from the spot where he had been seated.

  There was a general scramble as Bertie and Ginger, following Biggles, dived for the rocks just beyond the machine. Each chose his own for cover and each held a gun at the ready. Ginger found himself close to Biggles, on his left. Bertie was a few yards to the right.

  ‘This looks like the showdown,’ said Biggles, staring into the murk. ‘Can you see any of ‘em?’

  ‘No. Gontermann jumped back after he had fired.’

  Silence fell.

  To Ginger, unable to see anything but fog and the outline of the machine, the suspense was unnerving. In such conditions ears were of more service than eyes, but he could hear nothing. Were the three men still in front of them? Were they creeping up from a flank? Or from behind? He didn’t know, all he could do was try to watch every direction.

  ‘Watch the front,’ ordered Biggles. ‘I’ll keep an eye on the rear. Bertie, make sure they don’t try a rush from the sea. I doubt if they could get to us over the rocks without making a noise.’

  For some time nothing happened. To Ginger the strain of staring into a blank wall of white vapour became almost intolerable.

  The uncanny silence was at last broken by the clatter of a piece of rock. It came from behind. Biggles instantly fired a shot in the direction of the sound. Immediately there came a volley from the front. Ginger heard a shot smack against some part of the aircraft.

  ‘They’re all in front of us,’ he told Biggles, tersely. ‘I saw flashes in three different places.’

  ‘Then they must have tried the old trick of throwing a stone to mislead us and make us divulge our position. They can’t see us. If they could we’d be able to see them. They’re shooting blind. Shoot at anything you see move.’

  ‘Okay. I think the fog’s thinning a bit.’

  ‘Yes. The air’s moving, as if there’s a breeze on the way.’

  At this juncture there was another volley of shots, five or six, but while the bullets made a lot of noise as they ricocheted off the rocks they did no harm.

  ‘We’d better not talk,’ said Biggles softly. ‘They can hear us. Don’t waste ammunition. Shoot only if you see something.’

  ‘They’ll run out if they go on shooting at this rate.’

  ‘No doubt they have plenty more cartridges on the Wespe. If this is tricky work for us it’s just as bad for them.’

  Silence returned. Ginger glanced at his watch and saw that it was now mid-afternoon. He wondered what would happen when night came. The position was tiring enough in daylight. It would be worse after dark.

  Half an hour passed. Visibility had improved slightly, but against that the light was beginning to fail. Not that it would be da
rk for some hours.

  Bertie spoke. ‘I can hear something moving.’

  ‘What does it sound like?’

  ‘Rowlocks. There’s a boat on the water.’

  ‘It must be them, in their dinghy, making for the beach on your side. No matter. They can’t get to the machine without us seeing them.’

  ‘Shall I put a shot across to let ‘em know we’ve rumbled their little game?’

  ‘Please yourself, if you can get a line on the direction.’

  A minute later Bertie’s automatic spat. The report was followed by some splashing.

  ‘Did I get one of ‘em?’ he asked.

  ‘You’d be lucky if you did. But I think you made ‘em move in a hurry. That was the splashing we heard.’

  At this juncture, from some distance away, came a sound for which no one was prepared, one that immediately put the whole business in a different light. There was no mistaking it. It was the hoarse bellow of a ship’s siren. The volume was such that it could only have been made by a vessel of some size.

  ‘The Petrel!’ exclaimed Ginger, excitedly. ‘It must be the Petrel.’

  ‘Don’t jump to conclusions,’ said Biggles. ‘Don’t forget there’s a Russian whaler on this job, and other ships use the Strait as well.’

  ‘Ships going through wouldn’t use their sirens. Why should they? There’s supposed to be nobody here.’

  ‘The whaler might, if it was trying to find Gontermann. It could have got tired of waiting for him and decided to come to meet him.’

  ‘How could it know he was down this way?’

  ‘I remember Mr Scott telling us he told the man who went to him that Gontermann was somewhere down the Strait in his boat. He hadn’t seen it come back. He told us the same thing.’

  ‘I’d forgotten that,’ admitted Ginger, his hopes sinking. ‘Why are they hooting?’

  ‘They must have heard that shot Bertie fired and acknowledged it. There is this about it,’ went on Biggles cheerfully. ‘Whether it’s the Petrel or the whaler it’s going to settle this business one way or the other. Of course, Gontermann knowing nothing about the frigate will think only of the whaler, so he’ll do his best to bring it here.’

  As if to confirm this surmise there now came three shots, fired at regular intervals, from some little way down the beach.