by W E Johns
‘What is it?’ asked Biggles, now taking an interest.
‘Wood. Must be the deck. Looks pretty rotten.’
‘The hold, or whatever is under it, will be solid with sand.’
‘We’ll jolly soon see about that.’ Bertie got up, found a rock about twice the size of his head and staggered back with it. Raising it high he brought it crashing down on the exposed timber. It disappeared, leaving Bertie staring stupidly at the hole he had made.
The others hurried forward.
‘Stand back,’ ordered Bertie sharply. ‘This is my hole. You make your own.’
‘All right—all right,’ answered Biggles. ‘So it’s your own private hole. What are you going to do with it now you’ve got it?’
Bertie grimaced. ‘I say, there’s a most frightful stink coming up. Absolutely shocking.’
Biggles took a pace nearer. ‘That doesn’t smell like gold to me.’
‘Still, it might be down there.’
‘Not a chance. Only once in my life did I ever smell anything like that. I remember. It was an Arab dhow that had gone ashore on the coast of the Red Sea. It had been loaded with green hides. All you’ll find in festering hides is—well, look for yourself.’
From the hole was emerging a column of fat white worms.
Bertie backed away with a shudder of horror. ‘Oh no!’ he cried plaintively. ‘How perfectly disgusting.’
‘Are you still thinking of going below to look for the gold?’ inquired Biggles, smiling.
‘Don’t be beastly.’
Biggles became serious. ‘Okay,’ he said shortly. ‘Let’s pack it in. This isn’t the Vagabond, so there’s no point in wasting any more time here. The Salones said there was one wreck here. This must be it. We needn’t look for any more. Let’s get back to camp. Come on.’
No one argued about this, so they set off on the return journey. With an eye on the incoming tide they travelled faster than on the way out. Seeing they would easily beat the tide, Biggles stopped at some sun-warmed rocks a little short of the beach to munch a biscuit and take a drink of water.
They did not hurry over this, and may have tarried ten minutes while Biggles afterwards smoked a cigarette.
They were about to move on, when from behind the point of jungle-covered land that hid the beach from view there came a sound that for a second stiffened their muscles rigid. Biggles’s jaw dropped as he stared unbelievingly at the others. Then he ran.
The sound was the Gadfly’s engines being started.
Never had Ginger run faster than he did now, yet when he turned the corner to bring the camp in sight Biggles and Bertie were still in front of him. What he saw was the Gadfly taxiing towards the sea with Chintoo racing after it, his parang in his hand.
Biggles, without a pause, swerved to a line that would cut off the aircraft. He intercepted it at the very edge of the water and grabbing a wing tip swung the machine round so that its course was parallel with, instead of into, the sea. The throttle was advanced but he hung on, yelling: ‘Get to the door on the other side.’
Bertie, Ginger at his heels, dashed round. The door was open. Bertie sprang in, almost at once to fall out, locked in close embrace with a coloured man who looked scarcely human. His face was distorted by a fanatical grin, lips drawn back to show the teeth. Lank black hair reached to his shoulders. Sparse wisps of hair hung from his chin.
Leaving Bertie to wrestle with this unnatural creature, Ginger jumped into the cockpit and switched off, his first thought, of course, being to prevent the aircraft running away and damaging itself. As the engines died he leapt out again to help Bertie, who seemed to be having a hard time. Biggles also came round to lend a hand, while Chintoo, parang raised, hopped about looking for a chance to strike.
Ginger tried to get a hold on arm or leg. He found them, but was unable to get a grip. The man was like a bundle of eels. Apparently the others had the same difficulty, for the man seemed able to fling them off by some trick of ju-jitsu. As fast as they threw themselves on him, so were they hurled aside. At last the man, finding himself clear, tore away along the beach, leaving his only garment, a loin cloth, lying at the scene of the struggle. Bertie and Ginger ran after him, but seeing they had no chance of catching him soon gave up. Only Chintoo went on.
Biggles dashed to where he had dropped his rifle when he grabbed the wing. He raised it, but did not shoot, either because Chintoo was in line with the fugitive or he questioned the justification of killing a man who appeared to be out of his mind. The man disappeared into the jungle at the far end of the beach with Chintoo still in hot pursuit.
Biggles picked up the rag the man had dropped. ‘Looks like the remains of a Japanese shirt,’ he observed. He got into the cockpit and after a minute or two emerged holding a revolver. ‘Also Japanese,’ he said. ‘It was on the floor. I think, Bertie, you were lucky. You might well have got a Japanese bullet.’
‘Is everything all right?’ asked Ginger anxiously.
‘As far as I can see. He wanted to use the machine, not damage it.’
Still breathing heavily from their violent exertions, and obviously shaken by the shock of the whole thing, they looked at each other.
After a minute Bertie said: ‘I must say that was a bit of a corker. What do you make of it, Biggles, old boy?’
Biggles shrugged helplessly. ‘I haven’t a clue.’
‘What did the fellow intend to do? He was charging straight into the sea.’
‘It looked to me as if he intended taking off.’
‘He wouldn’t have been as crazy as that.’
‘Why not?’
‘But only a man who knew how to fly would do that!’
‘He may have been a pilot.’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘He knew how to start the engines, anyhow; and only a man with some knowledge of aero engines would have been able to do that. It’s my belief he would have taken the machine off had we not come along. Had he merely wanted to damage it he could have done so without starting the engines. That wasn’t the idea. He wanted the plane.’
Ginger spoke. ‘You think he was a Jap?’
‘He looked like one. This gun was made in Japan. I know the type. The maker’s mark is on it. And to clinch it, I think, the fellow was a ju-jitsu expert, a form of wrestling peculiar to Japan.’
‘But what in the name of all that’s fantastic would a Jap be doing here? He looked as if he’d been here a long time.’
‘It’s no use asking me. He may be a relic of the war, when the Japs occupied the whole area.’
‘Oh, have a heart,’ protested Bertie. ‘You can’t really believe that. Why should he stay here?’
‘I could believe it. After the war a lot of Japanese troops in Borneo, and the islands of what were then the Dutch East Indies, refused to surrender, being convinced they’d be shot. Up to a few years ago there were still some who couldn’t believe Japan had lost the war. This fellow could be such a case. He was crazy, anyhow. But never mind how he came to be here. What matters to us is, he’s here.’
To think he must have been here all the time!’ put in Ginger in a shocked voice. ‘Why didn’t the Salones tell us? They said there was a wild man on Shark Island. Are we to believe there are two of ’em? Oh no. One would be remarkable, but two...’
‘I’ll tell you the answer,’ said Bertie. ‘There’s been a misunderstanding. The Salones forgot which island the man was on. They said Shark Island, when in fact they meant Kampong. With the two islands so close together it would be easy to make the mistake. As Ginger says, there can’t be two lunatics floating about.’
‘We could go on guessing for a week and still be wrong,’ said Biggles. ‘Here comes Chintoo. He may be able to throw light on the mystery.’
The Malay hurried back along the beach to rejoin them.
‘Did you catch him?’ asked Biggles.
‘No, Tuan. He hides in jungle. But I catch his boat.’
‘Boat? What boat?’
>
‘When he runs from here he goes to little boat made of sticks and canvas. Before he can put it on water he sees I am too close and will kill him. So he leaves boat and runs in jungle. I break hole in boat. Now he must stay here.’
‘You think he came here in the boat?’
‘Yes, Tuan. From Shark Island. Not Salone canoe. Boat he makes himself I think.’
‘I begin to see daylight,’ said Biggles. ‘When we flew close past Shark Island he was there. He saw us and watched the machine land here. He took a fancy to the aircraft and paddled across in his home-made boat to snatch it.’ Biggles turned back to Chintoo. ‘Did you see him arrive?’
‘No. I am cooking rice when engines start. I look. When plane moves I run after it.’
‘What sort of man was he?’
‘Japanese man. I see plenty.’
Bertie chipped in. ‘Just a tick. Let me get this straight. Do I understand this raving idiot is now running loose on this island?’
‘That’s what Chintoo says.’
‘A charming thought to go to bed with,’ declared Bertie. ‘I call that really wizard.’
‘If he’s the man who was on Shark Island, and Chintoo thinks he is, he won’t be able to take pot shots at us when we land there.’
‘It won’t be necessary if he cuts our throats here, while we’re asleep.’
‘How you do carry on,’ reproved Biggles. ‘Can’t you see this is all to the good? The obvious thing to do is change places. Our barmy companion can stay here, leaving us to explore Shark Island in peace.’
‘When?’
‘Right away. Why not? We’re finished here. Shark Island was the next on our list. We know from the Salones there’s at least one wreck there. It may be the one. Let’s have a look at it. We’ll have something to eat and move over. We should manage it comfortably before dark.’
‘What about the fellow who’s landed himself here?’ queried Bertie.
‘What about him?’
‘Isn’t he liable to starve to death?’
‘He seems to have managed pretty well so far; I don’t think we need worry about him,’ decided Biggles. ‘Let’s get loaded up.’
CHAPTER 14
THE BIG QUESTION
By the time the camp had been cleared up and everything required put on board the day was dying, and with the breeze falling the palms of the towering coconuts were coming to rest. However, it was only a short hop across to Shark Island, and on arrival there was still just sufficient time for a quick reconnaissance. Biggles flew round the island and across it, but the light had too far gone for details to be observed.
However, it could be seen that Shark Island bore no resemblance to the one they had just left. Its shape was long and narrow, with a prominent head at one end and tailing off to a reef at the other; which gave it the appearance of a giant tadpole. Except at the high point, which dropped sheer into the sea, most of the coastline was beach, so landing presented no difficulty. The bulk of the island was as usual blanketed with a tangle of jungle.
‘Could this island be volcanic?’ asked Ginger, as they taxied up the beach.
‘I don’t know. Possibly. Why?’
‘I thought I saw a faint smudge of smoke rising.’
‘I’d think it more likely to be a fire made by the man who’s been living here. He wouldn’t waste matches, even if he has any, so I imagine he’d keep a fire going all the time, probably near the spot where he slept. No doubt he built a hut of sorts. It would be common sense to heap up the fire with green stuff, when not in use, to keep it smouldering.’
The aircraft was parked in a safe place, well above the tide mark, towards the tail end of the island, now seen as a chaos of rocks of diminishing size, either the result of erosion or a landslide in the distant past. It was decided not to unload the machine, but take out only those things that would be required for the night; groundsheets, mosquito nets, food and water.
‘If we take everything out we shall only have to put it back tomorrow,’ Biggles said. ‘You realize this is the end of the trail, the last island with the possible exception of Elephant Island—for the time being, at all events. Petrol is getting close to danger point. As it is, we’ve only about enough to scrape through to Penang. If we don’t find the Vagabond here I shall pack up until we get fresh orders. I’m not taking any chances of spending months on one of these islands like the wretched fellow who’s been living here.’
‘If you want to know what I think I’ll tell you,’ volunteered Bertie dispassionately. ‘The whole business was daft from the start. There are too many bally islands and not enough wrecks. We could spend the rest of our lives marching up and down these beaches, like the blooming crabs, without finding enough money to pay Chin-Chin his wages.’
‘Will you stop moaning?’ requested Biggles. ‘There’s a wreck here somewhere. A wooden ship. The Salones said so. If they could see it so can we. Tomorrow, in daylight, we’ll comb the place till we find it. If it turns out not to be the Vagabond I shall hit the breeze for Penang. I’m as browned off with this wild-goose hunt as you are. When we’ve had some supper we’ll turn in. Ginger, you can take the first guard.’
Ginger frowned. ‘Guard? Is that necessary?’
‘Probably not, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.’
‘If you’re thinking of that lunatic on Kampong Island he can’t get back. Chintoo knocked a hole in his boat, and however daft he may be he wouldn’t be such a twit as to try swimming back here through water stiff with sharks.’
‘So many things have happened, that shouldn’t have happened, on this cock-eyed expedition, that I’m taking no chances.’
That was all. After a stew of corned beef and rice, with mugs of cocoa, they settled down for the night, Ginger sitting on a little mound of sand with the rifle across his knees.
In the event nothing happened. The night passed without incident, but it was not long before one occurred to put new heart into the party.
While Chintoo was getting breakfast ready, Ginger, who had not forgotten the clue of a little heap of shells that was thought to mark the spot where the outcast Salone had camped, decided to take a walk along the beach behind the high-water mark to check if the old man had been to Shark Island. Since finding his first sovereign he had done this on other beaches, but without success. Failure is always discouraging and he did not seriously expect to find anything; but during his night watch he had remembered two things that might be associated. The original Salone found by Mac had been shot. The strange creature who had been living on Shark Island had a gun. The significance could not be overlooked.
Without saying anything to the others, Ginger strolled away along the sand, keeping close to the fringe of jungle. His delight can be imagined when, before he had gone far, his questing eyes lighted on a disc of yellow metal. He snatched it up. It was a sovereign, as bright as if just issued from the mint. How had it got there? He could see no limpet shells.
He put the coin in his pocket and walked on, fully expecting to find a heap of empty shells. Instead, he found another sovereign, and a little later, another. Still he went on, eyes active, trying to solve the mystery of this trail of gold. The only conclusion he could come to was that someone had walked along the beach carrying sovereigns, probably in a container of some sort. This must have had a hole in it, with the result that from time to time one of the coins had fallen out.
This led to another thought. No one who knew the value of money would be so careless as to lose coins in this way. This could only be the work of the old Salone. He had at some time walked along here carrying a bag or a basket of sovereigns. Fantastic though it seemed, like an incident in a fairy tale, it was the only explanation. The point was, where did the trail start and where did it end? Why did the old man carry the money about, anyway? How many coins had he in his bag? He would not be able to carry the entire consignment of twenty thousand.
In all Ginger found seven sovereigns before the climax was reached, when his the
ory was at once confirmed. Here was the heap of empty shells. Near them lay a heap of sovereigns, looking as if they had been tipped out carelessly from a receptacle. There were other things, too. Trembling a little from excitement, Ginger squatted down to examine them. There was a flat stone. Beside it lay a smaller stone with a rusty nail beside it. There was a short piece of cord, much frayed, also some sinews taken from he knew not what animal or fish. These things, which might have been expected, made the picture clear and complete. Somewhere, not far away, the old Salone had found the money. Taking some, he had sat here to punch holes through the coins to fashion for himself a crude necklace.
It did not need a master-mind to work this out, but then a question arose. Why had the old man not completed his task? Why had he left the rest of the sovereigns lying here? Twenty or thirty, at least. Why had he left his nail and the sinews on which apparently he had intended to thread more coins?
Ginger thought he had found the answer when he examined a patch of discoloured sand. It went down for about two inches. What was it? Could it be a bloodstain? If so it would explain why the old man had fled leaving everything behind. Someone had shot him. Why? But that was not important. Wounded, the old man had run to his canoe—he must have had one to reach the island—and pushed off. He had escaped, only to die in his boat, which had drifted to where it had been found by Mac.
It struck Ginger there was one item missing, one thing necessary to complete the picture. The bag or basket in which the old man had carried the money. He must have needed one. Practically naked, he would have no pockets and he certainly could not have carried all these coins in his hands. Could it have been blown away? Ginger got up and looked along the most likely place for it to have been stopped. The edge of the jungle. What appeared to be a piece of discoloured rag caught his eye. Pulling it out he found it to be stiff. It had a familiar smell. Raising it to his nostrils, his eyes went round with wonder. The smell was dope. What he held was a piece of aeroplane fabric.