Orchids for Biggles

by W E Johns

  ‘And so?’

  ‘Don Pedro said that as a result, the Russian he had spoken to, who had just arrived, had had to disembark at Puerto Vecho and finish his journey overland. I remember seeing this place Puerto Vecho as we flew up the river. Boiled down it means that if Bogosoff didn’t use the track, or tramp through the jungle, he must have come here by water.’

  ‘I don’t quite see what you’re getting at.’

  ‘All right. Bogosoff didn’t leave here by the track or we would have seen him. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Then short of hacking a path through the jungle he must have left by the river. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘That means he must have come here by the river.’

  ‘Right. But how?’

  ‘By canoe. He’d got one. Neckel kept one here presumably in case he wanted to get away in a hurry. Bogosoff pinched it. I saw him.’

  ‘Ah yes. Now I’m with you. Bogosoff must have parked the canoe somewhere and used it to come back. Now he’s gone off in it.’

  ‘What more likely? He isn’t here. If he left here in a canoe there’s only one way he could have gone, and that’s downstream. Don Pedro told us it was almost impossible to get upstream with the river in this state. Not even the steamboat could make headway against the stream. So if he’s on the river he’s going down, probably making for Puerto Vecho, where he’d be able to board a steamer returning to Manaos.’

  ‘He might have crossed the river to the other side, to Brazil.’

  ‘I doubt it. There’s nothing there except jungle. He’d never get straight across anyway. He’d be swept downstream, and if he landed he’d be faced with miles of walking through sheer jungle, and you know what that’s like. I can’t see him doing that. I’d say he’s heading down the river, making for the first settlement where transport is available, and that’s Puerto Vecho.’

  ‘If he left here in daylight he couldn’t have got there yet.’

  That’s how I see it. It’s twenty miles, and even with the river running as fast as it is I can’t see him getting there in less than a couple of hours. Reckoning he must be safe from pursuit, he’ll see no reason to take chances by being in too much of a hurry. In the aircraft we could cover the whole length of the river in a matter of minutes.’

  ‘We’ve got to get to it.’

  ‘We’ve got horses.’

  ‘If Bogosoff’s pal is still with him, wearing that white bush jacket, we should be able to spot it a mile away.’

  ‘It’s a chance. Let’s go.’

  ‘What will you do if we do spot him?’

  ‘I’ll decide that if and when the time comes. Let’s get cracking.’

  They ran to the horses.

  The ride that followed was something neither or them was ever likely to forget. When they had covered the same ground before, with José leading a packhorse, immediately after the rain in the heavy going, they had travelled at a walk. Bertie hadn’t checked the time for the journey, but he thought it had taken not less than two hours. Now, constantly urging their mounts to the best speed possible, they did it under the hour. They had this advantage. As a result of the fine weather the ground had largely dried out, and there were one or two places where it was possible to proceed at a canter. And, of course, there was no packhorse to lead. The heat was formidable, and both men and horses streamed perspiration. The usual cloud of flies and other insects were a tribulation that had to be endured.

  When they arrived at the Villa they saw Don Pedro in the yard with José and some of his orchid collectors. They all stared in astonishment as Biggles sprang from his pony and, without stopping to unsaddle, ran on to the little pier where the Gadfly was moored.

  Bertie shouted: ‘Sorry. Can’t stop now. We’ll be back,’ and leaving Jose to unsaddle their sweating ponies raced on after Biggles.

  Not a word was spoken as, having cast off, they scrambled into their seats in the cockpit. Without troubling to fasten the safety belt Biggles reached for the starter. A minute was lost getting the engines going, but as soon as they came to life they had a chance to warm up as the aircraft surged towards the open river. Without waiting to check anything, for every second was precious, Biggles took off, risking collision with floating debris. Airborne, Bertie breathed again. ‘Don Pedro will think we’ve gone raving mad,’ he remarked.

  ‘And he won’t be far wrong,’ answered Biggles.

  Holding the machine low he headed downstream, feeling sure that if Bogosoff was on the water he would by this time be well below them. ‘Keep your eyes open for a canoe with one or two people in it,’ he shouted. ‘For a start I’ll keep close to this bank.’ By this he meant the side of the river on which the Casa Floresta was situated.

  With the river at this point getting on for half a mile wide there was plenty of water to watch, but owing to the flood there was little traffic on it, and, as was to be expected, it was all going downstream. For the most part such craft as they saw were on the big side, either batelones, huge canoes with palm-thatched roofs such as Don Pedro used for transporting his bulbs to Manaos, or callapos, which are several balsa rafts fastened together. Ordinary small canoes were few and far between, and close investigation invariably showed them to be primitive dug-outs with a single native occupant. Rounding a bend Puerto Vecho came into sight without them having seen the craft they sought.

  ‘I’ll go back up the other side,’ said Biggles. ‘That canoe is on the river somewhere.’

  He was right. It was. Within five minutes a spot of white caught Bertie’s eyes, and concentrating on it he made it out to be the jacket of one of two people in a canoe which must have been travelling close to the opposite bank. It was now cutting diagonally across the stream as if making for Puerto Vecho. He called Biggles’ attention to it.

  ‘That’s ‘em,’ confirmed Bertie tersely, as the aircraft flew low over the canoe, deep in the water under its double load.

  What Biggles had decided to do should the circumstance arise he didn’t know. Nothing more had been said about it. He was soon to know.

  ‘I’m going to have those papers or they can go to the bottom of the Rio Jurara,’ announced Biggles grimly.

  Bringing the machine round in a steep bank he roared over the canoe at a height of not more than a few feet. If the purpose of this was to throw the occupants into a panic it succeeded. Apparently thinking they were about to be rammed they ducked in such haste that the canoe nearly went over. It shipped a fair amount of water before it recovered. Turning again Biggles made a landing which ended within a score of yards of the objective. A burst of throttle took the machine on as close as it was possible to get, the hull nearly touching the canoe.

  Opening his side window Biggles shouted: ‘Hand over those papers or I’ll sink you.’

  Bogosoff’s answer was to push the canoe clear with a paddle and resume paddling.

  ‘All right. You’ve asked for it,’ yelled Biggles.

  He taxied to a distance of perhaps fifty yards, swung round, and then bore down at speed on the canoe as if he really did intend to ram it. He nearly did, by accident, for this was something he would not have dared to risk. When the machine was within yards of the canoe a long black object rose out of the water dead in line with them, and to his horror Bertie saw it was the branch of a big tree, turning over as it rolled down on the flood. ‘Look out,’ he cried.

  But Biggles had also seen the tree, and did the only thing possible if they were to avoid a collision with an object solid and heavy enough to rip a hole in the keel.

  He swerved, yawing so violently that the port wing tip touched the water, causing the machine to swing directly towards the canoe. The hull missed it by inches, but the effect on the canoe was much the same. Struck first by the bow wave and then the wash of the wake it filled with water and capsized, leaving the two occupants clinging to it with only their arms and head showing above water.

  Again Biggles brought the machine round and ended up alon
gside the upside-down canoe. ‘Take over,’ he told Bertie, and leaving his seat hurried aft to the cabin. He opened the door to find himself a yard from Bogosoff. The man’s face was ghastly, as it had cause to be, for Amazonian rivers have some exceptionally nasty inhabitants that appear always to be hungry. Apart from alligators there are the voracious razor-toothed piranhas which travel in shoals and will tear a man to pieces in minutes, and the tembladores, the electric eels which Don Pedro had mentioned.

  ‘Give me those documents and I’ll take you to the bank,’ said Biggles quickly, for both craft were fast being carried down the river.

  This time Bogosoff did not argue. Putting a hand in a breast pocket he pulled out a long black wallet with a zip fastener. Biggles snatched it out of his hand and opened it to glance at the contents to make sure he was not being fooled. Satisfied, he put the wallet in his pocket, helped Bogosoff and his companion, streaming water, to get on board and called Bertie.

  ‘Keep an eye on these two,’ he ordered curtly. ‘I’m running them over to the bank.’ So saying he went forward to the controls and taxied to a muddy beach at the bend just above Puerto Vecho. He called to Bertie: ‘Okay. Get ‘em ashore.’

  The two men stepped out into the mud and splashed their way to higher ground.

  Biggles took the machine clear, and in a minute or two it was in the air heading upstream towards the Villa Vanda.

  When they had landed and taxied in Don Pedro came down to the pier to meet them.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry about that,’ said Biggles apologetically, as he made fast. ‘It was rude of us, but I hadn’t time to explain. If you’ll be kind enough to give us a drink I’ll tell you what it was all about. We owe you that after your help and hospitality.’

  Presently, in the house, with some refreshments before them, he did that.

  ‘And what are you going to do now?’ asked Don Pedro, when he had finished.

  ‘Get back home as quickly as possible to set a few minds at rest. But before I do that we shall have to go to Cruzuado to collect our kit and pay the hotel bill.’

  ‘I can do that for you,’ offered Don Pedro. ‘There’s no need for you to go. You both look as if you could do with a wash and brush up. If you like I’ll send José into the town to collect your gear. At the same time he can tell the patron I’ll be along myself in a day or two to settle up. You wait here. It’ll give you a chance to have a square meal before you start.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s a kind offer I shall not decline,’ accepted Biggles, gratefully. ‘I don’t mind admitting that after the rate we’ve been going for the past few days I could do with a breather.’

  ‘That goes for me, too,’ put in Bertie. ‘After the flap we’ve had this morning I’m still not sure whether we’re coming or going.’

  And so it was settled. When a few hours later they thanked their host and said goodbye to José they had still said no word about the finding of the body in the Casa Floresta. Biggles thought it better that José should not know they suspected him of the murder. As he said, it was only suspicion. They had no proof, and as far as he was concerned, as José had served them well he’d rather not know the truth.

  * * *

  Five days later Biggles walked into his chief’s office at Scotland Yard and laid the wallet on his desk. ‘I think that’s what you wanted, sir.’

  The Air Commodore sprang to his feet. ‘You mean you’ve got those papers!’ he exclaimed. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Neither can I,’ returned Biggles, dryly. ‘You’d better have a look.’

  The Air Commodore opened the wallet and examined the contents. Having done so he drew a breath of relief that seemed to come from his heart. ‘Yes, these are the ones,’ he confirmed. ‘What’s happened to them? They’re all cockled, as if they’d been wet.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. I feel a bit cockled myself. At one moment they were within inches of going to the bottom of the Rio Jurara.’

  ‘How did that happen ?’

  ‘It’s rather a long story, sir. Knowing you’d be anxious, I came straight here before going home to change. If you’ll give me a little while to get straightened out I’ll tell you all about it.’ Biggles smiled wanly. ‘Sorry I hadn’t time to pick you a bunch of orchids.’

  The Air Commodore returned the papers to the wallet. ‘These are all the flowers I wanted.’

  ‘Then that’s all that matters, sir. See you later.’

  Biggles went out.

  THE END