Biggles and the Lost Sovereigns

by W E Johns

  ‘So I notice.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned they’re a couple of murderers. They might have killed Chin-Chin—and a fat lot they’d have cared.’

  ‘Just a minute. That looks like a gun of some sort lying on the ground beside ’em.’

  ‘If we go quietly we shall have the drop on them.’

  ‘Biggles won’t be pleased if we start a gun battle.’

  ‘There won’t be any battle. If they reach for that gun you’ll see how fast I can shoot.’

  ‘Good enough. Lead on, Marshal Dillon.’

  They slid quietly down the slope to the beach and edged towards the jungle to come up behind the men still engaged in the shot-extracting operation. Their feet making no sound on the soft sand, they were able to advance swiftly, and were within yards before one of the men sensed their presence. He leapt up, grabbing for an antiquated rifle that lay on the sand.

  ‘Hold it,’ cracked Bertie, jerking forward his rifle.

  His prediction had been correct. The men may not have understood the words, but they knew what he meant. They raised their hands and stood still. Guilty consciences may have been responsible for their quick submission.

  Ginger, pistol in hand, kicked aside the old rifle. It fell across the fire, but he appeared not to notice it, going on quickly to take the dagger from the man who held it. ‘You speak English?’ snapped Bertie.

  There was no answer. The two men, with flat, brutish faces, just stood there, expressions inscrutable.

  Bertie fetched the nearer a resounding cuff on the ear.

  ‘Speak,’ he barked.

  The man spoke. Startled, he uttered one word. ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s better,’ growled Bertie. ‘What are you doing here?’

  No answer.

  ‘Who sent you to our camp this morning?’

  No answer.

  Bertie pointed to the island. ‘Is that your ship?’

  No answer. The faces might have been graven images.

  Eyeing the wounded man sternly, Bertie touched one of the shot marks. ‘How come?’ he demanded.

  Still no answer.

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ muttered Ginger. ‘They don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘They know all right, but it suits them to pretend to be dumb,’ sneered Bertie.

  ‘If they take that line you’ll get nothing out of ’em. You can’t shoot ’em in cold blood, so you might as well let ’em go.’

  ‘To knife us as soon as our backs are turned? They’ll move fast enough then.’

  ‘What do we want to know, anyway? We know what they did, and they must know we know. That’s why they won’t talk. What can they say? You can hardly expect them to admit they knocked our man on the head in order to bust up our camp.’

  ‘I want to know who told ’em to do it. It must have been someone on that junk. They wouldn’t be likely to attack us without orders. The trouble with orientals is they don’t seem to care two hoots whether they live or die. Why were they left here? Either to watch us or do us more mischief. Well, I’m not going to leave them here, expecting my head to be sliced off by a parang every time I turn a corner. I see they’ve got one lying there. No doubt it’s the one that cut our tent ropes.’

  Ginger shrugged helplessly. ‘What can you do?’

  ‘Send ’em after the junk. That’s were they belong.’ Bertie looked back at the two natives, and raising a finger pointed to the dinghy. ‘Go,’ he ordered.

  The men looked at each other.

  Bertie raised the rifle. ‘Go,’ he repeated. ‘I count five then I shoot.’ He raised five fingers, one after the other, counting, to make his meaning clear.

  The men began to back away. At a distance of a few yards they turned and shuffled on towards the dinghy.

  Bertie and Ginger, saying nothing, watched them launch it, and getting in, begin to row in the direction of the island behind which the junk lay.

  ‘I can’t see that’s done us much good,’ said Ginger gloomily.

  ‘It’s better than leaving them here. I shall sleep more comfortably knowing they’re out of the way. A couple of cutthroats, if ever I saw any. They knew what I was talking about.’

  ‘All right. That’s that,’ returned Ginger. ‘Now we’d better see about getting back. I don’t like this wind. Biggles may need help. He’ll be wondering what’s keeping us.’

  At this moment a curious thing happened. It made them both jump. The old rifle that had fallen across the fire exploded, the bullet ploughing up the sand between them.

  ‘Great Scott!’ cried Ginger, aghast. ‘We might have been shot!’

  ‘That was careless of us,’ admitted Bertie. ‘We should have guessed that ancient blunderbuss would be loaded. How stupid can one be? Never mind. It missed us. That’s all that matters. Let’s get cracking.’

  They walked back to the rock barrier and from the top could see the dinghy rocking as it made its way to the junk. Then a glance along the foreshore showed them all they needed to know—a line of pounding foam and spray as breakers rolled in from the now turbulent sea.

  ‘That settles that,’ said Ginger. ‘We shan’t get back that way.’

  ‘I don’t know. We might just do it.’

  ‘And get trapped half-way? Not me. Why risk it? There must be a way across the hill or those coolies couldn’t have got to our camp. The Salones could have made it when they were here. It may have got overgrown since then, but it shouldn’t be hard to find. At least we know we shan’t meet any tigers.’

  Bertie agreed it might be more prudent to adopt Ginger’s method of getting home.

  A short walk along the outskirts of the jungle that backed the beach brought them to what they were looking for, an opening where some bamboos had been cut to make a narrow pathway leading into the undergrowth. Footprints in the mush of dead leaves showed it had been used recently. Without a word they entered it, Bertie, having the rifle, going first. It was uphill work on a greasy track to the shoulder of the hill, and no breath was wasted in conversation after Ginger had warned to be on the look-out for cobras.

  Reaching the highest point, the ground was nearly all rock, the undergrowth being more open and the trees not so big. Here at the top of the hill there was a more or less flat stretch, and as they strode along it Bertie suddenly stopped, looking at something at his feet. Stooping he picked up an object and turned to show it to Ginger, saying: ‘You know, old boy, Biggles really is a bit of a wizard. Not many people would have seen through that fake tiger trick. Look at this.’ He held out the thing he had picked up. It was a tiger’s pad, complete, with some loose skin left on it into which a hand could be inserted in the manner of a glove.

  After staring at it curiously, Ginger raised his eyes to Bertie’s face. ‘So that’s it. Why would anyone carry a thing like that around with him? He couldn’t have known he was going to use it to fool us.’

  Bertie examined it closely through his monocle. ‘It might have been a fetish, or a sort of lucky charm. People have queer tastes.’

  ‘Why did he leave it here?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say he left it. He must have dropped it.’

  ‘Why drop it? Why not pick it up?’

  ‘He may have been in too much of a hurry. Perhaps something gave him a fright.’

  ‘That’s more like it. That could account for it.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘That yell we heard. The fellow who went to the pool to make the pug mark may have got as far back as this when something put the wind up him, whereupon he let out a yell and bolted, dropping the dummy foot. Ha! It’d be a joke if he bumped into a real tiger. He must have been badly scared because he didn’t come back... to...’ Ginger’s voice trailed away. His eyes, slowly saucering, were fixed on something on the path ahead.

  Bertie, startled by his expression, turned his head to look.

  A little farther along a tiger was stepping out of the jungle. Seeing the men it stopped, gazed at them for a few seco
nds without the slightest show of hostility, then stepping daintily like the big cat it was, disappeared without a sound on the opposite side of the path.

  For a little while neither Bertie nor Ginger spoke. Then Bertie said: ‘I don’t believe it. It isn’t true. First there was a tiger. Then there wasn’t one. Now there is. Or is there? Did you see what I saw?’

  ‘I saw a tiger.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. But dash it all, old boy, these things don’t happen.’

  ‘This one did,’ retorted Ginger grimly. ‘Keep your finger on the trigger. He might change his mind. Stand still and give him a chance to get clear. We’ve got to pass that spot. You may think this is funny, but I don’t.’

  ‘Not funny, dear boy. Fantastic. That’s the word. Fantastic. Biggles isn’t going to believe this when we tell him. Matter of fact I’m finding it a bit hard to believe myself.’

  ‘Don’t talk so much. He may be listening.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry. That tiger was practically tame. I’d say he was born in a circus and escaped.’

  ‘Will you stop fooling? All I’m concerned with escaping from is this stinking jungle. Now we know what gave that coolie a fright. He didn’t think it was funny, either.’

  ‘Seriously, old boy, shall I tell you why that handsome fellow took no notice of us?’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I’d bet you any money he’s never been hunted. He merely took us for a couple of overgrown monkeys. He would have purred had we given him a pat. Wild animals are like that if they’re left alone.’

  ‘So you say. If you’re so sure about that beast being friendly, press on. If he doesn’t get you I’ll follow.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Bertie walked on.

  Nothing happened.

  Having passed the spot, he turned and raised a thumb.

  Ginger followed. Staring into the jungle as he went through the danger area he caught a fleeting glimpse of a black and orange striped body fading into the gloom. With no small relief he hurried on to catch up with Bertie, who had stopped to wait for him. ‘Keep going,’ he requested pithily. ‘This is no place to sit down and admire the scenery.’

  They went on, had a quick drink at the pool in passing, and without further adventure reached the beach, where they were surprised by the violence of the wind. In the forest the full effect of it had not been evident.

  Seeing them Biggles shouted: ‘Come on. I want you. Can’t you see what’s happening?’

  They hurried to join him as, with the help of Chintoo, he drove pegs under the aircraft.

  ‘Where the heck have you been all this time?’ he demanded angrily as they joined him. ‘The bottom’s dropping out of the barometer. We’re in for a sumatran, and a stinker, at that. The junk must have smelt it coming.’

  ‘It’s lying under the lee of that island over there,’ informed Bertie. ‘One way and another we’ve had quite an afternoon.’

  ‘You can tell me about it later.’

  ‘I’ve brought you a souvenir.’ Bertie held out the tiger paw.

  Biggles brushed it aside. ‘Never mind about that now. We’ve got to work fast.’

  Bertie looked at Ginger sadly. ‘There ain’t no gratitude in the world,’ he lamented.

  * * *

  1 See Biggles Takes It Rough.

  CHAPTER 9

  ANOTHER CLUE

  The protection of the camp, more particularly the aircraft, as the storm approached, became a race against time. The machine, having been turned dead into wind, was anchored with pegs and sand-bags. Nothing more could be done. The same with the tent after sand had been heaped on the skirts to hold it down. The burnt hole, while not a large one, was a hazard as the wind poured through it and threatened to lift the whole thing into the air like a balloon. There had been no time to consider how it could be repaired. Luckily the mosquito nets were still serviceable, not that they were likely to be required in the present weather conditions.

  ‘I though this material was supposed to be fireproof,’ said Ginger indignantly, as they worked.

  ‘It is, more or less,’ answered Biggles. ‘If it hadn’t been it would have gone up in flames before anything could be done about it. But I doubt if any stuff would stand direct contact with red-hot ashes without some damage. Well, that’s about as much as we can do. We shall have to take our luck. Let’s get inside before the rain comes, because when it does it won’t start with a drizzle. It’ll come down in buckets. Chintoo will have to come in with us. He can’t stay outside. Call him in. This will mean a cold supper out of a tin.’

  It was now nearly dark, and not only because the sun was low. The entire sky was covered with a blanket of black, ominous, fast-moving cloud. The wind, shrieking, increased to hurricane force. Seas thundered on the beach. Then, without warning as Biggles had predicted, came the rain. From the noise it made the cloud had burst wide open, discharging its contents like liquid ramrods. A ground-sheet was held over the hole in the tent, but inevitably some water came through.

  ‘How long is this likely to last?’ shouted Ginger above the uproar.

  Biggles shook his head. ‘Don’t ask me. Ask Chintoo.’

  Chintoo didn’t know either.

  Conversation became impossible. Sleep was out of the question. More than once it was thought that the tent would go. For nearly four hours these conditions persisted, but by midnight the full fury of the storm was spent, or the centre of it had passed on. The wind came in less violent gusts. It still rained, but not so heavily. There was less noise.

  Biggles put out his head to see how the aircraft was taking it, by no means certain it was still there. ‘Can’t see a thing,’ he announced. ‘Pitch black. Thank God there was no hail or the wings would have been knocked into colanders. I’ve seen that happen in monsoon weather. I can hear the sea pretty close, but I don’t think it will reach us now. It should be on the ebb. You realize what this means?’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘We’re grounded. There can be no more flying till the sea goes down. There isn’t room on the beach to get off, and with this sea running it would be madness to try to put the machine on the water. Apart from that, only in a dead calm sea could we do any good. Now we can hear ourselves speak, you can tell me what happened this afternoon.’

  Ginger, with occasional remarks from Bertie, narrated their adventures.

  Biggles heard the story in silence.

  ‘I hope we did the right thing,’ concluded Bertie. ‘I didn’t feel like leaving those two toughs on the island to carry on with their dirty work. We don’t know what they would have tried next.’

  ‘I think you were right,’ replied Biggles. They’re obviously acting under orders. If they were on their own they wouldn’t dare to touch us. There must be someone on board that junk who’s interested in what we’re doing. As I said before, the junk has as much right to be here as we have. If the idea is to get us off the island the owner might lay a complaint against us for shooting one of his men.’

  ‘Look what he did to us! Haven’t we got a complaint?’ demanded Ginger hotly.

  ‘Of course we have. But could we prove it? The outcome of an argument would probably depend on which story the authorities preferred to believe. If it was left to that fellow Yomas we know which side he’d take. Remember, we’re stuck here and couldn’t get away if we wanted to, at all events until the sea calms down. Otherwise I’d feel inclined to keep on the move in case Yomas looks for us. Another unfortunate thing about the storm is, it might hold up the Alora. We need the stores she’s bringing us. In a calm sea we could go out to look for her, and maybe land alongside; but with the sea as it is it’s no use thinking of that, and we don’t know how long it will be before it goes down. It may take days. All we can do is hang on here hoping there will be no more trouble before Mac gets here.’

  ‘I wonder how the junk weathered the storm,’ put in Bertie. ‘It would suit us if she was blown ashore.’

  ‘I wouldn’t pin any ho
pes on that,’ answered Biggles. These craft may look unwieldy, but they have the reputation of being able to stand up to almost anything. Were it otherwise they wouldn’t last long in these waters, when the monsoon hits them. No. They saw the storm coming and moved to a safer anchorage without waiting for the two men who were ashore. That’s my guess. Of course, there might have been another reason for leaving them where you found them. We don’t know.’

  ‘What about the tiger?’ queried Ginger. ‘Can you beat that? When I saw one staring me in the face I couldn’t believe my eyes. You could have knocked me flat with a feather.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘Good thing there were no birds about. It all goes to show.’

  ‘Show what?’

  ‘That truth is stranger than fiction. People have been saying that for thousands of years, but for some extraordinary reason they’re still astonished when anything unusual happens. But the storm seems to have blown itself out of breath somewhat, so it might be a good idea to get some sleep or we shall be fit for nothing tomorrow. Before we settle down, for my peace of mind I’ll make sure the machine’s still there.’ Parting the flap he crept out.

  ‘It’s still there, and as far as I can make out there’s been no harm done,’ he informed the others, when he returned.

  There was no more talking.

  The morning broke fine and clear, with only a few scattered fragments of cloud being hounded across a blue sky by a stiffish breeze. There was still an ugly sea running, as was to be expected, successive breakers throwing snow-white curtains of lace far up the beach. They had cast up tangled heaps of debris, seaweed, coconuts, palm fronds and the like. The forest trees presented a bedraggled appearance, with branches torn off and sometimes stripped of leaves. Monkeys had come down and were having a banquet of crabs. Chintoo collected some coconuts.

  ‘If the Alora doesn’t soon show up we shall be on short rations,’ remarked Biggles, as they lingered over breakfast with nothing to do after they had satisfied themselves that the aircraft had escaped damage and the engines had been tested. ‘We’re not likely to starve, or anything like that, because at a pinch, while we have petrol, we can always slip across to the mainland. But as things are I’d rather not risk coming into collision with that snooty little upstart Yomas.’