by W E Johns
It was about two feet square with edges that looked as if they had been hacked with a blunt knife. The knife had slipped, causing a tear; probably the hole through which some of the coins had escaped, reasoned Ginger. How a piece of aeroplane fabric came to be there was the biggest mystery of all. Ginger gave it up. It was time Biggles knew about this.
Smoothing his handkerchief flat on the ground, he piled the sovereigns in it, tied the corners, and with a smile of satisfaction on his face walked quickly back to camp.
‘Come on,’ greeted Biggles curtly. ‘We’ve been waiting for you. What have you been playing at?’
‘Playing is the word,’ returned Ginger, trying to keep a straight face. ‘I won some money.’
‘What money? What are you talking about?’
‘You’d better fasten your safety belts because you’re going to take a bump.’ Ginger put the handkerchief on the sand, unfastened the corners and exposed the contents.
No one said a word.
‘Well, what about it?’ prompted Ginger, grinning. ‘Aren’t you going to say thank you?’
Biggles seemed to have difficulty in finding his voice. ‘Have you found the wreck?’
‘No.’
‘Then where did this come from?’
This was the old Salone’s private hoard. He must have found the wreck.’
‘We knew that already.’
‘It must be here somewhere. Here’s the nail he used to punch holes to make his necklace. I fancy he was shot here.’ Ginger told his story from the beginning.
‘You’re right. That can only mean the Vagabond is on Shark Island,’ declared Biggles. ‘All we have to do is find it. Good show, Ginger.’
‘Before we rush off madly in all directions, you’d better have a look at this,’ said Ginger, producing the piece of plane fabric which he had folded and put inside his shirt.
Biggles took it. He stared. ‘Where the devil did you get this?’
‘I think it was what the old man carried the money in. It was lying close by. Don’t ask me where he got it.’
After a pause Biggles said: ‘I’ll tell you. Somewhere on this island there’s a crashed aircraft. There must be. And I’ll tell you something else. The pilot who crashed it is still alive.’
‘I get it,’ murmured Bertie. ‘He was here, but now he’s on Kampong. Right?’
‘Right. But we can forget about him. Let’s find the Vagabond.’
‘Are you going to fly?’ asked Ginger.
‘Yes. The wreck must be on top of the ground or the Salone wouldn’t have found it. Let’s get weaving. Put that money in the locker.’
In a few minutes the Gadfly was in the air, and even before the search had really begun the lost schooner was spotted within half a mile of where they had spent the night. It lay jammed, almost on even keel, among the rocks and big boulders that formed the tail of the island. It had, of course, been dismasted, and the deck had been washed clear, which would account for it not having been seen from the beach.
Biggles landed the aircraft at the nearest possible place. Ginger hooked the anchor in the sand and together they splashed through shallow water to the wreck. Its name, Vagabond, could still be seen in faded letters on the bows.
‘It’s her,’ cried Bertie. ‘Now for the jolly old shekels.’
Although nothing was said, it is likely that doubts began to arise as soon as they went below. The ship had been stripped clean, not only of everything portable; all fixtures, even the cabin doors, had been carried away. The Vagabond was, in fact, as empty as a drum. What they now feared confronted them in what must have been the captain’s cabin. On the floor were two wooden boxes with a handle at each end. There had been locks, but these had been prised off. Stencilled in white letters on the lids of the boxes was the name of a famous bank. Both boxes were open. They were empty.
Biggles tapped a cigarette on a thumb nail. ‘You know what I think of treasure hunting,’ he said evenly. ‘Now you know why.’
‘So that confounded old Salone lifted the lot?’ muttered Bertie.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘But it’s all gone. You can see for yourself.’
‘I’m not disputing that. But I don’t think the Salone was responsible.’
‘Why not?’
‘In the first place I can’t see how he could have busted the locks. That would need a metal tool. What would he do with all that money, anyway? The limit of his intelligence was to hang a few round his neck. There were twenty thousand sovereigns in these boxes. I haven’t worked out how much they would weigh altogether, but the weight would be considerable. That’s why handles were put on the boxes. Would the Salone hump that lot around? I don’t think so. He was satisfied with a few.’
‘Then what’s the answer?’
‘Several men may have been here since the ship was cast ashore, but we know of only one. He’s now on Kampong Island. How long he was here we don’t know, but it wouldn’t have to be long for him to find the wreck. He’d find the money. Would he leave it here? No. He’d put it somewhere else. We might dig up the entire island without finding it.’
‘Is there anything we can do about it?’ asked Bertie. ‘If not we might as well go home and forget it.’
‘I’m not giving up yet,’ answered Biggles. ‘We may have one chance left. The man who found the money wouldn’t carry it farther than was necessary—unless of course he had a ship in the offing. I rule out the old Salone, although I’m puzzled to know how he got hold of a piece of aeroplane fabric. All I can think of is, somewhere on the island there’s a crashed plane and the old man found it. For the moment I shall assume the lunatic Jap found the gold. I admit there’s a weak spot there. You may say, if he found the cash how did the Salone get a bag full? There must be an answer to that, but I shan’t try to guess it. All right. The Jap found the sovereigns. Naturally he’d take them away. Where? It’s reasonable to suppose he’d hide them close to where he lived, so that he could keep an eye on them. What we have to do now is find his living quarters. There isn’t much ground to cover, so that shouldn’t be too difficult. We might as well try it. Sitting here staring at the empty boxes won’t help us. Ginger, where did you see that smoke yesterday?’
Ginger pointed. ‘There. Unless my eyes are fooling me I can still see a faint suspicion.’
Biggles had a long look. ‘I can see it. There’s something else there, too, but I can’t make out what it is. Let’s investigate.’
The Gadfly was taken back to the beach and they set off along the shore to get as close as possible to the source of the smoke without having to force a passage through the jungle. The proposition was simplified when, nearly opposite the smoke, they came upon a well-trodden path running in the right direction. It was obviously not an accident, and it was hardly necessary for Ginger to remark that this must be the track made by the castaway in his journeys to and from the rocks below.
The rest was easy. A five-minute scramble up a fairly steep bank brought them to a small area of level ground. On it stood a strange contraption that brought them to a halt while they considered all its implications.
Ginger was the first to speak. Looking at Biggles he said, simply: ‘So you were right.’
Before them was a structure clearly intended to be a shelter, a hut, a dwelling. Something of the sort had been expected. What was remarkable were the materials that had been used for its construction. They were the remains of an aeroplane, the wings, fuselage, rudder and elevators having been propped up by bamboos to form something reminiscent of a Red Indian wigwam. Conspicuous near the entrance was the red Rising Sun device of Japanese military aircraft. The piece concerned had once been the underside of a wing tip. Near by the ashes of a fire smouldered.
‘A Nakajima fighter,’ said Biggles softly. ‘It’s a long time since I saw one of those. It gives us a rough idea of how long the Jap has been here. This is where he crashed and set up house with what remained of his machine. Poor devil. No wonder he went r
ound the bend. When we get home we’ll report this. No doubt someone will be sent along to pick him up. I don’t feel like tackling that job myself. With a bit of luck he could have got away.’
‘How?’
‘In our machine. It’s my guess he saw us go past and land at Kampong Island. He had made himself a little boat Chintoo said it was made of bamboo and canvas. I’d say it was aeroplane fabric, which, being doped, would be waterproof. He came across hoping to pinch our plane, and he nearly got away with it. One can’t make allowances for that sort of thing. Let’s have a look inside.’
They went in. There was not much to see. A large rock that had evidently been used as a seat or a table. A cushion that had once filled the seat in the cockpit. On one side, kept off the ground by pieces of struts and longerons, was a heap of dry fern fronds arranged as a bed.
Said Biggles, looking around: ‘If he didn’t bury the sovereigns this is where he’d bring them. If so there’s only one place where he could put them out of sight.’ Crossing to the bed he tilted up the end. This exposed a number of bags made of aeroplane fabric. Each was gathered in and tied neatly at the top with a piece of cord. He picked up one, and carrying it as if it was heavy dropped it in the middle of the floor. The sound it made was a soft chink. He cut the cord, folded back the edges of the fabric, and there lay a heap of sovereigns. He looked up. ‘Well, there it is,’ he said with a whimsical smile.
‘It’s pretty plain now to see what happened here,’ observed Ginger. ‘The Jap found the gold. He brought it here in small consignments, easy to carry, in pieces of fabric. One day the old Salone lands here. Walking along to the rocks to get some limpets he spots the path. He had to see where it led. That brought him here. The Jap must have been out. The old man finds the gold and helps himself to a bag. Back on the beach near his canoe he has a feed of limpets and amuses himself by making a necklace. He was still sitting there when the Jap spots him, shoots him, but doesn’t kill him. Wounded, leaving everything, the old man bolts to his canoe and gets away, only to die later.’
Biggles nodded. ‘I’d say that’s the story as near as if we’d seen it happen.’
‘But why did the Jap have to shoot the poor old boy?’ asked Bertie indignantly.
‘The old Salone wasn’t an exception,’ reminded Biggles. ‘According to the men we spoke to he made a habit of shooting at anyone who landed here.’
‘Why should he?’
‘Maybe he was out of his mind. Maybe he didn’t want visitors who might see what he had under his bed, so he discouraged them by shooting at them. But we can talk about this later. We’ve got to get this money home. We’ll start by getting it to the machine. It’ll mean more than one journey.’
Biggles counted the bags. There were fifteen. The sizes varied, as would, therefore, the weight of coins in each. Apparently for want of any other container the Jap pilot had used pieces of fabric cut from his plane, taking them from wherever was most convenient or from places where they would be least likely to affect his shelter. The gaps could be seen. It looked as if the Salone had taken the smallest.
Biggles picked up a bag and made a grimace. ‘I’m not happy about all this weight,’ he said dubiously.
‘Do you mean you don’t think the machine will carry it?’ questioned Ginger.
‘Oh yes, she’ll lift it all right; but we shall have to go steady. In a bad bump one of these bags, or all of them, might go through the floor. That has happened to more than one plane with a concentrated weight like this. I remember some years ago an old Imperial Airways machine with a load of gold bars, running into choppy weather, arrived at Croydon without its load, having scattered it half-way across Kent. It had gone through the floor. All we can do is distribute the weight evenly as near the centre of gravity as possible. That’ll help to keep the machine trimmed too. Let’s get on.’
Everyone picked up a bag in each hand, taking the largest. They went out. Ginger, who was first, stopped short. ‘Oh no,’ he cried. ‘Look what’s coming.’
Speeding across the blue water towards Kampong Island was a white-painted launch.
CHAPTER 15
THE LAST ROUND
‘So Yomas has caught up with us,’ observed Biggles calmly. ‘Those two Salones we spoke to at Mergui must have talked. They’d see no harm in it.’
‘They’d remember the questions we asked about islands where there were wrecks,’ put in Bertie.
‘Of course.’
‘The launch seems to be making for Kampong.’
‘It is. But it won’t take Yomas long to discover we aren’t there.’
‘He’ll see we’ve been there.’
‘And as we didn’t stay he’ll guess we found nothing. Then he’ll come on here. We don’t want him panting down our necks. We’ve no time to lose. Don’t forget that launch carries a sting, and Yomas will be prepared to use it. We’d better keep going. This looks like ending in a race.’
The little procession of three men, each carrying a small fortune wrapped up in what looked like pieces of dirty rag, hastened on down the path. As far as it was possible without risking a fall or treading on a snake, all eyes were on the launch as it went on, without altering course, towards the beach which the Gadfly had used on Kampong Island. It could be seen as a pale strip against the sombre background of the vegetation.
At half-way they paused for breath, for the loads were heavy. ‘Shall I be glad to get rid of this stuff!’ muttered Biggles, as they went on. ‘I never did like having any truck with gold. After sweating through this jungle with a load I shall like it even less.’
‘What about the crazy Jap?’ queried Bertie.
‘What about him?’
‘Yomas might bump into him, or he might have a crack at Yomas.’
‘That would be all to the good. It might delay Yomas coming here. If they fight, so much the better for us. That would be their worry. We have enough on our plate.’
They saw the launch reach the island. Some men went ashore. Yomas in his white uniform was conspicuous.
‘To save time talking when we get to the machine, this is how we’ll handle it,’ said Biggles, as with perspiration streaming down their faces they stumbled on over the rough ground. ‘Chintoo can go back with you to fetch the rest of the bags. I shall stay to stow this first lot and make ready for a quick take-off. I shall do everything except start the engines. They might be heard across the water.’
Nothing more was said and in a few minutes they were dropping their loads besides the aircraft. Chintoo had seen the launch and was watching it with anxiety written on his brown face. Without wasting words, Biggles told him to go with the others to help to bring down another load.
Bertie and Ginger had a quick drink of water and set off again, taking Chintoo with them.
Biggles’s last orders were: ‘If the launch looks like getting here before you, dump everything in the jungle and run for it. We daren’t risk being caught. If we were we’d lose the machine. Don’t stop for anything.’
Still keeping an eye on the launch, he busied himself with the aircraft. First he threw out the tent, and anything else not likely to be required, primarily to reduce weight. This done, he stowed the bags of gold in the fore part of the cabin, placed firmly so that they would not be likely to move even in a tight turn. The Gadfly, in accordance with the usual practice, had been parked facing the direction of takeoff, so there was nothing more he could do except have everything ready in the cockpit. All the time he watched the launch, prepared to start up should it make a move towards Shark Island. After that he could only wait, exercising his patience.
Time passed, a long time, it seemed, during which he divided his attention between the island opposite and the direction from which the others would return. He was expecting to see them at any moment when what he knew to be inevitable happened. The launch began to move. In a minute it was kicking up a foaming bow wave as it sped towards Shark Island and the beach on which he stood. He had a suspicion that the aircraft,
which was, of course, standing in the open, had at last been spotted. He estimated that the launch would not take more than five or six minutes to get across.
As keeping the engines silent would no longer serve any useful purpose, he climbed into the cockpit and started them. Leaving them ticking over, he jumped out again.
It was at this crucial moment that Chintoo came into sight carrying his load in his sarong slung over a shoulder. Close behind came Bertie and Ginger, staggering, more than was necessary, it seemed, with their bags. They too, it turned out, had seen what was happening.
Biggles dashed to help them with their loads. ‘Chuck everything inside, get in yourselves and shut the door,’ he ordered tersely as they reached the aircraft. ‘We’re away.’
A quick glance as he dived into the cockpit showed the launch a quarter of a mile away.
The engines raised their voices. The aircraft ran down the beach to float on the water. The wheels came up. The engines bellowed. The Gadfly, gashing a line of creamy foam across the surface of the blue water, unstuck, and soared into the air, just clearing the launch. The risk of collision had always been apparent, but there was nothing Biggles could do about it. It would have been an even greater risk to turn the heavily loaded machine, near the water, while it still barely had flying speed. A wing tip would only have had to touch the sea to bring disaster.
Climbing, Biggles went on. He did not look back.
Presently Ginger joined him. ‘That was what you might call touch and go,’ he remarked, smiling.
‘Are you telling me,’ returned Biggles grimly. ‘You were a heck of a long time away. What happened? When you came into sight you were rolling like you were drunk.’
‘So would you if you ever tried running through bushes with the pockets of your shorts full of sovereigns,’ answered Ginger.
He explained. While they were running down the hill he had dropped one of his bags. It had burst open. The contents had, of course, fallen out. Pressed for time, it would have taken too long to refill and tie up the bag. All he and Bertie could do was scoop up the coins and stuff them in their pockets. He admitted a few might have been lost.