Biggles and the Lost Sovereigns

by W E Johns

  ‘Yes. Laon think Feng on junk.’ Chintoo pointed to the junk which, having dropped anchor, was lowering a boat.

  ‘Is this why Laon wanted to get here first?’

  ‘Yes. He think Feng stop him talking to you.’

  ‘The Salones are pushing off,’ Ginger pointed out. ‘If they go how is Laon to get back to Mergui?’

  ‘No matter. We can fly him back,’ said Biggles.

  Laon explained that the Salones were the only people he could find willing to bring him across to Chang Island. That was only on the understanding they were not asked to stay, because their wives were waiting for them at Mergui and they had to get back quickly to the rest of their families.

  Biggles nodded. ‘I see. The Salones can go. Here come the people from the junk. It’ll be interesting to hear what excuse they have for coming here.’

  The small boat had been pulled up on the beach. There were five men with it. Two remained. Three advanced towards the tent, two of them obviously crewmen. One carried a rifle. The other man, with a skin the colour of milky coffee, was smartly dressed in a white linen suit.

  ‘It is Feng,’ informed Laon, softly.

  This begins to add up,’ Biggles told the others. ‘Remember, he was aboard the Alora when Mac found you-know-what. He wanted to buy them. He’s worked it out there must be some more about. He wants to be free to look for them. That’s why he isn’t travelling with Mac as he usually does.’

  Feng walked up.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ inquired Biggles coldly.

  The answer came in fluent English with a reedy oriental accent that blended strangely with an American drawl—as Mac had described. ‘You shot one of my men.’

  ‘I should damn well think so after what he did,’ retorted Biggles.

  ‘I hope you don’t hold me responsible for that.’

  ‘As you admit he’s one of your men, I most certainly do. Are you the owner of that junk?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Then you’d better keep your crew under control because it’ll be bullets next time, not pellets.’

  ‘You had no right to turn him off the island.’

  ‘He was lucky to get off so lightly. Had I seen him I’d have been tempted to finish what my friend here started. Perhaps he forgot to tell you that he clubbed the man I left in charge of my camp. Now suppose you quit beating about the bush and tell me why you’re wasting my time.’

  ‘How long are you going to stay here?’

  ‘As long as it suits me. Anything else you want to know?’

  ‘Why have you come here?’

  The frown on Biggles’s face deepened. ‘What the hell’s that got to do with you? You must have an almighty nerve to ask such a question.’

  ‘I really came to tell you something.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘If you’re waiting for Captain Macdonald you’re likely to be here for some time.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘How is it you know so much?’

  ‘When I was in Mergui I heard he’d been caught running opium. That’s a serious matter.’

  ‘Now suppose we have the truth. When you were in Mergui you met the dirty little stinker Yomas and bribed him to frame Macdonald to keep his ship there.’

  ‘Captain Yomas is a government official.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh,’ sneered Biggles. ‘When I report to Rangoon the sort of racket he runs they’ll have his hide off—and yours, for bribery and corruption. Tell him that when you see him. Now, if you’ve finished, push off and let me get on with my work.’

  ‘What work?’

  ‘Getting rid of some of the snakes that infest the islands. There are too many.’

  Feng’s lips curled. ‘You don’t like snakes?’

  ‘Not your sort.’

  Feng did not answer. His expression changed suddenly as his eyes came to rest on something that lay on the ground nearer the tent. It was the lifebuoy. He pointed to it. ‘Where did you find that?’

  ‘On the beach. It must have been thrown up by the storm. If it’s of any use to you you’re welcome to it. We don’t carry lifebuoys.’

  ‘No. I don’t want it,’ returned Feng slowly.

  ‘Then perhaps you won’t mind finding a beach of your own. There are plenty to choose from.’

  Feng nodded. ‘I’ll do that.’ He turned away, and escorted by his men returned to the dinghy, which was soon on its way back to the junk.

  Biggles, a faint smile on his face, lit a cigarette. ‘So now we know,’ he said quietly. ‘Our little trick worked. When Feng spotted the lifebuoy he was so taken by surprise that his face gave him away. He knows that the ship carrying the sovereigns was the Vagabond; and now we know he knows. Now he’ll concentrate his efforts on this particular island. That suits us, because we shan’t be here. There’s no point in hanging about here now we know Mac is tied up at Mergui.’

  ‘How did Feng find out about the Vagabond?’ Ginger asked the question.

  ‘By making inquiries at Singapore, I imagine, after he’d seen Mac’s sovereigns. Quite a few people must have known, at the time, about the gold being loaded on the Vagabond; but in the panic to get away they wouldn’t pay much attention to it. No doubt most of them would soon forget all about it. If Feng went along the waterfront checking on British ships that were in the harbour he’d almost certainly find someone who’d remember the business. But never mind how he found out. The point is, we can be pretty sure now of what Feng is after. How much he has told Yomas we don’t know, but it looks as if they’re both in this together. For how long? If it so happened that they found the gold they wouldn’t stop at double-crossing each other. Take it from me, there’d be murder done.’

  ‘But look here, old boy, this is all very fine,’ said Bertie. ‘What are we going to do about Mac? Through helping us he’s got himself in the dog-house.’

  Biggles didn’t answer the question. He turned to Laon. ‘When did you leave Mergui?’

  ‘Yesterday morning, Tuan.’

  ‘Was Captain Yomas in the town then?’

  ‘No. I saw his boat leave. Not see it come back.’

  ‘You don’t know where he went?’

  ‘No. He goes north. Perhaps to Tavoy. He has office there.’

  ‘Now you’ve done what you were sent to do, would you like to go back to Mergui?’

  ‘Yes, Tuan.’

  ‘Good. I will take you there in my plane.’

  Ginger looked surprised. ‘Isn’t that like jumping into the lion’s den? What can we do when we get there?’

  ‘Get Mac out of gaol.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘I don’t know—yet. We’ll see how the land lies. First we’ll try fair means. If that fails it’ll have to be by—well, other means. All I know is I’m not leaving a friend to rot in a stinking, bug-ridden bungalow, because if I know anything that’s what the gaol will be; something intended for native drunks. If all else fails it’ll mean a trip to Singapore to let the Alora’s owners know what’s happened. They won’t want their ship laid up; nor will the village people along the coast who depend on it for supplies.’

  ‘But surely Mac would send his owners a telegram telling them what had happened.’

  ‘No doubt he’d try; and no doubt Yomas would see the telegram wasn’t sent.’

  ‘Could Yomas stop it?’

  ‘If he can prevent the Alora from sailing he’d think nothing of stopping a telegram. These little tin gods have a lot of power locally. Everyone is scared stiff of ’em. You’re in Burma, not London. But there is this about it. In these parts a little money goes a long way.’

  ‘If Yomas has gone why does the Alora stay in Mergui, anyway?’

  ‘Use your head. How could it sail without Mac? He’s probably the only navigator on board. But that’s enough talking. Let’s get to Mergui and sort things out. Apart from anything else, as Mac can’t get here, we shall have to stock up with stores somewhere. Now
let’s pack up and pull out. Feng can have the run of the island. After seeing that lifebuoy he must be all agog to get here.’

  ‘Let’s hope he meets the tiger when it’s hungry,’ growled Bertie.

  CHAPTER 11

  WHAT HAPPENED AT MERGUI

  It was evening when the Gadfly glided quietly into the little bay on the shore of which the town of Mergui huddled under a fringe of tall, slender palms. The Alora, at anchor, a wisp of smoke hanging over its single funnel, was conspicuous, there being nothing else of that size. The only other craft were three Chinese sampans and a number of native canoes, some resting motionless on the tranquil water, others pulled up on a muddy beach. The coastguard launch was not there; at least, Ginger said he couldn’t see it.

  In the mellow light of the setting sun it all made a picturesque scene, although compared with what it had been in the past, when it was the capital of a Siamese province, there was not much of it; and the buildings that could be seen, all of wooden construction, appeared to be in poor shape. Most of them lined the waterfront, some standing on stilts in the sea. On the rising ground behind, the graceful spire of a pagoda, catching the last rays of the sun, proclaimed Buddhist influence. At one end some jungle-covered mounds marked the sites of long-abandoned tin mines.

  Mergui was of course on the same coast as Victoria Point, where contact had been made with Captain Macdonald, but in character it was different. Mergui was definitely Burmese and had nothing of the bustling activity of the port farther south. A few men stood in front of some dilapidated warehouses, presumably traders in local produce.

  ‘It’ll be dark in half an hour, so we haven’t much time,’ remarked Biggles to Ginger, after the aircraft had landed on the water and run in close at the quiet end of the foreshore. ‘I must have a word with Chintoo and Laon. We mustn’t forget their homes are on the coast and it wouldn’t be fair to involve them in trouble.’

  ‘Are you expecting trouble?’

  ‘I’m not leaving here until I’ve seen Mac, so your guess is as good as mine. Wait here.’ Biggles went through into the cabin.

  In less than five minutes he was back. ‘That’s settled that,’ he said. ‘I put the position to them fairly, pointing out it was up to them to decide whether they stayed with us or went off on their own. I warned them what I was going to do and would stand for no nonsense from anyone. We got Mac into this spot and we must get him out. They’ll go along with us. When we leave here Laon will rejoin the Alora. It’s his home. Chintoo says he’ll stick with us for as long as we want him. They both know their way round, so that suits us.’

  Bertie had come to the bulkhead door and was listening. ‘What’s the first move?’ he inquired.

  ‘That’s the big question,’ replied Biggles. The most important thing is to see Mac to find out exactly how he’s fixed: but before tackling the police-station, it would be a good thing to know if he managed to get a telegram off to his owners in Singapore. If he did, we might do more harm than good by using force at this stage. The only place where we can get that information is at the post-office. I’m confident the first thing Mac would do when he realized what he was up against would be to let his owners know. That would be the correct procedure. But as I said before, Yomas would almost certainly try to prevent that, particularly if he is over-stepping his authority in doing what he has done.’

  ‘How could he prevent it? He doesn’t own the bally post-office.’

  ‘Maybe not, but he has some power. Anyhow, I’m going to find out. When we know the facts, one way or the other, we shall know how to act. Let’s get on with it.’

  Arrangements were soon made. Taking with him Bertie and Laon, leaving Ginger and Chintoo in charge of the aircraft, Biggles went ashore. Laon, knowing what he had to do, led the way to the post-office, taking an alley behind the front row of houses to avoid being seen. The only people they met were two Burmese women who took no notice of them.

  It was only a short walk to their destination, but by the time they had reached it the tropic night, soft and warm, bringing with it aromatic perfumes, was dropping from the sky. Fireflies emerged from their daylight retreats to dance under the palms. The humming and chirping of insects made an unbroken background of sound. The moon had not yet appeared, but the stars were so bright, and appeared to hang so low, that it seemed possible to reach them.

  The post-office, in front of which Laon had stopped, turned out to be a wooden two-roomed bungalow in such a state of disrepair that it looked as if a shove would push it over. A faded notice on the door, in several languages—including English—announced its purpose, and the hours of business. A light came from a window.

  ‘Good. It’s still open,’ said Biggles.

  He tried the door. It was locked. He knocked. There was no answer. He looked through the lighted window. A small Asiatic, in pyjamas, using chopsticks, was seated at a table eating from a bowl. The light came from an oil lamp on the same table.

  Said Biggles: ‘According to the notice, the office should be open. Laon, tell him to open the door.’

  Laon tried several languages without result.

  Biggles rapped on the window with his knuckles. ‘Open the door,’ he ordered crisply.

  This produced an answer. It was: ‘Go away. Office shut.’

  Biggles drew a deep breath. ‘Who does he think he is?’ Raising his voice he said: ‘If this door isn’t open in five seconds I shall kick it down.’

  The Chinaman, if he was Chinese, continued eating. He did not even look up.

  Biggles’s lips set in a hard line. ‘It’s time someone taught this fellow a lesson,’ he muttered. He went to the door and raising a leg kicked from the thigh. The door crashed inwards.

  The post-office clerk leapt to his feet and came forward, gesticulating and gabbling in a high piping voice. Biggles met him half-way, seized him by the collar of his pyjama jacket and twisting it tight forced him back against the table. ‘I have a good mind to strangle you,’ he rasped.

  The man gurgled. His eyes bulged. His arms waved helplessly.

  Biggles went on. ‘Now you answer my questions and tell the truth, or I’ll give you a hiding you’ll never forget.’ He loosened his grip a trifle. ‘Are you in charge of the post-office?’

  The man gasped. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s better. You know Captain Macdonald?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has he sent a telegram from here?’

  The man looked terrified. He did not answer.

  Biggles gave the collar another twist. ‘Did you send a telegram for Captain Macdonald? Speak up.’

  ‘Yes—no.’

  ‘Which is it? Yes or No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he brought one in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you didn’t send it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Captain Yomas says not.’

  ‘Ah. Where is the telegram?’ Biggles released his hold.

  The man went to a heap of papers, selected one, and with a shaking hand gave it to Biggles who, after a glance, folded it and put it in his pocket. He then eyed the man sternly. ‘Now listen carefully. You will forget that I’ve been here and that you gave me this paper. I don’t care what lies you tell Captain Yomas. Stay indoors for the next hour. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Here, take this and keep your mouth shut.’ Biggles peeled a few notes from his wad and handed them over. ‘If you tell Captain Yomas what you’ve done he’ll kill you; and if he doesn’t I will. That’s all. Don’t do anything to bring me back here.’ With that he led the way outside.

  ‘You see what I mean?’ he said to Bertie. ‘I was sorry for the poor little devil, but there’s only one way to get the truth out of his sort. You have to be tough.’

  ‘Jolly good, old boy. Where now?’

  ‘To the police-station. It’s vital that we let Mac know his telegram wasn’t dispatched. He’s probably content to st
ay here only because he’s relying on his owners to act. As things are he’d have to wait a long while. Now Laon, the police-station. You know the way. Lead on.’

  The police-station turned out to be an improvement on the post-office, at all events in the matter of size and a corrugated iron roof instead of palm thatch. Of the same rough timber construction, it was long and narrow, in the manner of the traditional British army hut, with a single door at one end. This opened into a narrow corridor that ran the length of the building. From it a number of doors at regular intervals gave access to the prison cells, although presently it was discovered that the first compartment provided accommodation for the guard on duty.

  Investigation revealed only one guard, a short man in a drab cotton uniform with the jacket unbuttoned. He sat outside, in an attitude of careless ease, legs wide apart, in a chair tilted back so that it rested on the wooden wall. A long cheroot hung from his lips. Near at hand leaned a rifle. Against the hut had been tossed a cartridge bandolier. It was obvious that the very last thing the man expected was that he might be called upon to use the weapon. It would not be fair to criticize him too hardly for this, for in tropical countries it becomes a habit to do any task with the least possible effort. The only movement he made when the visitors came to a halt in front of him, to show that he was aware of it, was to move the cheroot a few inches from his mouth and exhale a cloud of smoke.

  Bertie moved nonchalantly close to the rifle.

  Biggles spoke. In a casual tone of voice, as if the request was not unusual, he said: ‘I want to see one of your prisoners—Captain Macdonald.’

  ‘No see,’ was the equally casual answer.

  ‘You heard what I said,’ returned Biggles, his voice hardening slightly.

  ‘No see.’

  ‘Yes see,’ corrected Biggles succinctly. ‘Do you take me to him or do I have to find him myself?’

  There must have been a threatening note in this question, for the guard allowed his chair to tilt upright. At the same time he reached out for his rifle, but the fingers that closed round it first were Bertie’s. He moved it along the wall a little way.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ went on Biggles. ‘There’s no need for us to fight about this. If it comes to that you’ll be the one to get hurt.’ He took out his wad of notes and held it suggestively.