by W E Johns
‘What is it?’ asked Bertie, quickly.
‘There’s somebody here. On the floor. Stand fast while I light the lamp.’
This was done, and the moonbeams were banished by yellow lamplight. For a few seconds neither Biggles nor Bertie spoke. With horror on their faces they could only stare at what lay at their feet It was a body: the head in a pool of blood. The throat had been slashed. It was Neckel.
‘My God!’ breathed Biggles. ‘What a mess.’
Bertie said nothing.
‘I thought there was something fishy about the place, but I wasn’t expecting anything like this,’ went on Biggles, tersely.
‘The sooner we’re out of here the better,’ rejoined Bertie. ‘If we’re found with this on the floor we shall have some explaining to do. Who on earth could have done it?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’
‘Bogosoff?’
‘No. This was never done by a white man. Bogosoff would have used a gun. This was the work of a knife, probably a machete. Moreover, had Bogosoff been here it would have been to search for the papers, in which case we’d see signs of the place having been ransacked. As far as I can see nothing has been touched.’
A strange expression came into Bertie’s eyes. ‘I’ll tell you who did it.’
‘Who?’
‘José.’
‘Never.’
‘Why not? He spent the morning swilling aguardiente and had worked himself into a mood for any devilment. He was handy with a machete. Remember, he held Neckel, or Salvador as he called him, responsible for Dolores’ death. If he did this he wouldn’t walk back to the town along the track for fear of meeting someone who knew him. He’d keep out of sight. I told you I’d seen a coloured man in the forest. If I’m right it would explain why José suddenly decided to go home in such a hurry.’
Biggles bit his lip. ‘I’m afraid you’re right on the beam. It certainly adds up, the way you’ve put it. Pity. But never mind about that now we’ve no time to lose. I’m not going without the papers if they’re here. Open the front door and warn me if you see anyone coming. With both doors open we shall have an escape route if we’re disturbed. Don’t go far away, though.’
‘I get it.’ Bertie went through to the front of the house.
Biggles went over to the picture, an unglazed oil painting of a religious subject, in a deep gilt frame, measuring about two feet by eighteen inches, behind which he thought the papers might have been hidden. He lifted the cord off its hook. Disappointment awaited him. The wall behind it was bare. He put the picture on a nearby side table, and returning to the place where it had been he pushed and prodded hoping to locate a secret spring. Nothing happened. He stood back dismayed when he realized that this meant the entire house might have to be searched, which would take a long time. But there was nothing else for it. If he was to recover the missing documents it was now or never, for once the police took over, as no doubt they would when they learned what had happened to the tenant, it would be more difficult than ever to gain access to the house.
There was an antique Spanish writing-desk against the wall under the place where the picture had hung. It seemed as good a place as any to start so he opened it and started going through the compartments inside. Five minutes’ work established that the papers, which he imagined would be in a large envelope or tied together, were not there.
There were four drawers down the side of the desk. He pulled out the top one. Suddenly he stopped, tense. He had not heard a sound; but by instinct or intuition a feeling had come over him that he was not alone in the room; that he was being watched. The fact that his nerves were keyed up may have been responsible. He spun round.
Just inside the door by which he had entered the room stood Bogosoff, covering him with a gun.
‘Carry on,’ said Bogosoff, smoothly, with a cynical smile. ‘You’re saving me a lot of trouble.’
Biggles’ jaw set. What was Bertie doing to allow this to happen? Had Bogosoff been in the house all the time? were the thoughts that flashed through his brain. No matter. All that mattered was, the man was there. He must have seen the light and knew where to come.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ said Biggles, shortly, really to gain time to recover from shock. He spoke loudly, hoping Bertie would hear his voice.
‘Surely that question is quite unnecessary,’ sneered Bogosoff.
‘You see what’s on the floor.’
‘Of course. If you had to kill that miserable traitor you needn’t have made such a mess.’
‘I didn’t kill him.’
‘What does it matter? I would have killed him, anyhow. I shall also kill you without the slightest hesitation if you don’t do exactly as I tell you. I have no personal grudge against you, but business is business. Stand with your back to the wall.’ Bogosoff indicated the place with the muzzle of his pistol.
Biggles obeyed. Caught at a disadvantage this was not the moment to open active resistance. That could come later. Bertie was outside. He could only hope he wouldn’t walk into the room unprepared and get himself shot. At present it was obvious from the way Bogosoff was behaving that he was unaware of Bertie’s proximity. But the overwhelming fact in Biggles’ mind was that Bogosoff had not yet got the papers, or he wouldn’t be there. It was a relief to know that.
With his eyes on Biggles Bogosoff advanced to the desk. ‘Don’t try anything foolish,’ he advised. ‘I’m not carrying this gun as a decoration. If the papers are not in this room I shall have to try the others, in which case you will be in my way. To avoid the unpleasant consequences of that I’ll make you a proposition. If you will give me your solemn word of honour to go away and not return I’ll allow you to go.’
Biggles could see Bogosoff’s difficulty. The man could hardly search the house, going from room to room in the dark, taking him with him. He wouldn’t be able to search and watch him at the same time.
‘I’m giving you nothing,’ he said coldly.
‘As you wish. But be very careful.’
Biggles took care not to move or show any emotion when a movement at the far door caught his eye and he saw Bertie standing there, gun in hand. Apparently he had either seen Bogosoff arrive and had followed him in, or hearing voices had come to investigate. His eyes, seeing that Biggles had noticed him, asked a question.
Rather than speak or make a signal to Bertie Biggles decided to take the initiative. For one thing he realized that Bertie would not dare to use his gun for fear of hitting him because he was standing directly in line with Bogosoff.
‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ he told Bogosoff. ‘Do you suppose I’d be such a fool as to come here alone?’
Bogosoff took no notice. Standing sideways to the desk so that he could keep one eye on Biggles, he started throwing out the contents of the drawers.
‘I’m telling you,’ went on Biggles. ‘Take a look behind you.’
Bogosoff smiled sourly. ‘Try something a little more original.’
Bertie stepped in. ‘Drop that gun,’ he said crisply.
Hearing the voice behind him Bogosoff whipped round, half raising the gun.
Biggles took a swift pace forward and snatching up the picture from the table brought the heavy frame crashing down on Bogosoff’s head. The man did not fall, but he staggered under the blow, dropping the gun as his hands went to where he had been struck. Tossing the picture back on the table, Biggles kicked the pistol clear and picked it up.
‘Now I’ll give the orders,’ he rapped out.
The position was now reversed. It was Bogosoff who was going to be in the way when they proceeded to search the house. He saw a way out of the difficulty.
‘Bertie, you might cut the cord off that picture and use it to tie Mr Bogosoff’s hands while we get on with this daft business,’ he requested.
Bertie cut the cord with his penknife and tied Bogosoff’s hands behind his back while Biggles kept him covered. This done Biggles pushed him into an easy chair, saying:
‘Now it’s your turn to keep still. Keep an eye on him, Bertie, while I get on with the job.’
The job, of course, was to make a thorough search for the missing documents.
To ransack a house for one particular object, and a small one at that, is not an easy task in any conditions: in the peculiar circumstances, what with the darkness and the fact that Biggles did not know his way about, it was clear to him from the outset that the operation was going to take time; probably a lot of time. To make things more difficult it was not absolutely certain that the papers were there.
First he finished the room they were in. Then he went to what was clearly Neckel’s bedroom. Not finding there what he sought, he went through the rest of the house. It was all to no purpose. He was disappointed, but he was not surprised. Not from the start had he expected to find the papers in an obvious place. They would be hidden, and Neckel would give some thought to the matter. It was more than an hour later when Biggles returned to the sitting room where Bertie was still standing guard over the prisoner. As a final hope, a remote one, he went through Neckel’s pockets.
‘No use,’ he said moodily, as he rose from this gruesome performance. He looked at Bogosoff, who was smiling cynically. ‘It looks as if we’ve both been wasting our time.’ He turned back to Bertie. ‘Well, we can’t stay here all night. Now we’ve got his gun, and as we can’t take him with us, we might as well let our friend go.’
Bogosoff continued to smile.
Bertie removed the cord from his wrists.
Bogosoff stood up, rubbing them.
‘Clear out and stay out,’ ordered Biggles, frostily.
The man went without a word.
Biggles lit a cigarette. ‘This looks like being the end of the trail,’ he remarked lugubriously. ‘There’s only one thing left for us to do. If those papers are in this house, if we can’t get them I’ll see that no one else does.’
‘How are you going to manage that?’
‘I’m going to set fire to the house.’
Bertie started. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me. My orders were, if I couldn’t get the papers I was to take any steps to see that no one else gets them. That’s plain enough. Bear in mind if these papers got into the wrong hands they could start a war. They may not be here. If they are somewhere else, with Neckel dead they’re likely to remain where they are indefinitely. If they are here, should Bogosoff come back he can amuse himself going through the ashes.’
Bertie looked shocked. ‘But I say, old boy, that’s a bit steep.’
‘It’ll be steeper if someone else finds those papers and realizes their importance,’ returned Biggles grimly.
‘But what about him?’ Bertie indicated the dead man.
‘He’s past caring what happens. If cremation was good enough for the Roman emperors it should be good enough for him.’ Biggles spoke in a voice bitter with frustration.
‘And having done that, what next?’
‘We go home. And I’m not stopping to pick orchids.’
‘What are you going to tell the police.’
‘Nothing. I shan’t say a word about us having been here. When I get back to headquarters I want to be able to tell the chief that I have good reason for thinking the papers no longer exist.’
‘Then you still think they may be somewhere in this house?’
‘They could be. It’s the most likely place. I must have been an optimist to suppose Neckel would put them where they could easily be found. He must have known an attempt would be made to recover them and he’d take steps accordingly. To get at them, if they’re here, could mean taking the house down brick by brick.’
‘Before we send the place up in flames don’t you think it would be better to leave things as they are and come back in daylight, when we’d be better able to see what we’re doing, for a final check.’
‘We’d probably find the police here.’
‘Not if we came early. It might be some time before Neckel’s body is discovered. At a pinch you might take the Intendente into your confidence. Tell him the whole story. He’s well disposed towards us. Moreover he’s a pal of Don Pedro. If it comes to that we could ride out to the Villa Vanda and ask Don Pedro to put in a word for us. I’m sure he’d do anything to help. He should know from experience how to handle the police. He’s no fool. He must know jolly well that we didn’t really come out here to pick posies.’
Biggles considered the suggestion. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he conceded. ‘When I talked of setting fire to the place I was pretty well at my wits’ end. Here we are, in the house. We’ve done pretty well to get as far as this, but I’m afraid it’s as far as we can go. We still haven’t got what we came for. What a spot to be on.’
‘We’d better make up our minds.’
Biggles reached a decision. ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll go back to the hotel and try to grab a few hours’ sleep. At the crack of dawn we’ll ride out here on the ponies. If there’s no one here we’ll make a final search. If the police are here we’ll ride straight on to the Villa Vanda, without going back to the town, and tell Don Pedro all about it. I’ll ask for his advice.’
Bertie nodded. Tm with you. It’s about all we can do.’
Then let’s get on with it.’
Having put out the lamp they left the house, closing the doors behind them.
CHAPTER 13
ONE LAST CHANCE
THE stars were one by one dying in the sky before the advance of the mounting sun when, the following morning, Biggles and Bertie went out into the yard and having saddled their ponies set off in the direction of the Casa Floresta for what they expected would be for the last time —as in fact it was. Biggles was in a sombre mood, for as he had said, if they failed to find the missing documents it would mean returning home to report failure, or near failure. With Neckel dead their one contact with the papers had disappeared, and only time would show whether or not they had passed into the possession of someone else.
What the patron of the hotel must be thinking of their strange behaviour Biggles neither knew nor cared. The gloves were off and he was prepared to do anything, go to any lengths to bring his mission to a successful conclusion, if that were possible, regardless of what anyone might think.
Bertie took a more philosophical view. They had done everything humanly possible and no one could do more than that, he asserted.
When, in the grey light of the new day, with clouds of tenuous mist rising like steam from the valleys, they reached the house of death, they found it silent and apparently deserted. The doors were still closed. Taking the horses into some convenient trees, they tethered them and continued on foot. Biggles wasted no time on preliminary scouting. He went straight to the front door. Without knocking he opened it and with Bertie close behind walked into the sitting room. At first sight everything appeared to be precisely as they had last seen it. Neckel’s body still lay on the floor.
Suddenly Biggles stiffened. ‘Somebody has been here since last night,’ he said in a thin, brittle voice.
‘How do you know?’
‘Look at that picture! The one I took off the wall. After I’d hit Bogosoff on the head with it I threw it on that table. It was still in one piece. Now look at it. Pulled to pieces and half of it on the floor.’
Bertie looked. The heavy gilt frame was there. So was the canvas, although it had a large hole in it. But the thin backing boards lay in strips and splinters on the carpet, as if someone had tried to make matchwood of them. ‘How very odd,’ he said. ‘Why should anyone do a thing like that?’
Biggles went on in a curiously calm voice. ‘Don’t you realize what has happened?’
‘No, I’m dashed if I do.’
With such an expression on his face as Bertie had never seen there before Biggles murmured, still quite calmly: ‘We’ve made the biggest boob we ever made in our lives. It’s all as plain as a pikestaff. I was right about that picture. The papers must have been between the backing a
nd the canvas. I may have split the backing when I cracked Bogosoff on the skull and so exposed them. I never looked at the thing again. It’s the only possible answer. No one but a raving lunatic would come in here and, with a dead man on the floor, start to tear a picture to pieces for no reason whatsoever.’
Bertie clapped a hand to his head. ‘Imagine it! The papers were right here under our noses all the time. Now someone else has found them.’
‘Not someone. Bogosoff. Who else would be likely to come here? Who else could know about the papers? Last night he waited for us to go; then he came back to make another search. I realized that might happen, but what else could we do other than let him go? We couldn’t shoot him in cold blood; nor could we take him back to the town with us. Anyhow, as I hadn’t been able to find the papers I thought it long odds against him finding them if he did come back. Why should he go near that picture? Well, your guess is as good as mine. He may be interested in painting. He may have wondered why it had been taken down. I may have split that flimsy backing when I hit him and so exposed something white inside. But never mind how it happened. Let’s face it, it’s a million to one he’s away with the papers. That’s why he isn’t here. It’s time I had my head examined. When I get home I’ll hand in my resignation.’
‘No use going on like that, old boy,’ protested Bertie. ‘There was no reason for you to look twice at the picture. Bogosoff can’t have got far.’
‘Far enough.’
‘Not if he had the same idea as we had, and waited for daylight before he came back.’
‘Without knowing which way he’s gone it isn’t much use looking for him.’
‘He didn’t go towards the town or we’d have met him. I can’t imagine him leaving the track.’
That’s true.’ Biggles frowned. ‘Just a minute. I’ve remembered something; something Don Pedro said when we arrived at his place and I suggested going on to Cruzuado by the river. He said it wasn’t possible while the river was in flood. Even the steamboat service couldn’t get beyond — what did he call the place — Puerto Vecho, about twenty miles downstream. The river’s still running high and strong, so the conditions are the same.’