by W E Johns
‘We made a pretty smart choice of a base, didn’t we?’ sneered Algy sarcastically.
‘I agree, but it’s a bit late to think about changing it. Regrets won’t get us anywhere. We’d better submit. Luckily, most of my money is in letters of credit and travellers’ cheques, so they won’t be able to rob us of much.’
After that they submitted to the indignity of being searched, a proceeding that was carried out very thoroughly. Everything was taken from their pockets, including the map of the island and Dick’s doubloon. The things were put in a bag and taken away, and again the airmen found themselves alone.
Biggles and Dick alone retained their equanimity. Algy was livid with rage, while Ginger sat on a form and made threats that he was quite powerless to carry out. ‘Did you ask that lean-faced swine what his stiffs were doing in our machine?’ he challenged Biggles.
‘What was the use?’ replied Biggles coolly. ‘My dear boy, it’s no use going off at the deep end. Ill-advisedly, not that we were to know better, we have put ourselves in the clutches of these sharks, and all we can do is sit tight until we get out. Don’t think that I am going to let them get away with it. I’m not. But this is neither the time nor place to start threatening.’
‘What about my doubloon – and the map?’ asked Dick anxiously.
‘What about them?’ returned Biggles. ‘One can only hope that they do not realize their significance. Your doubloon might simply be a souvenir. The map may mean anything. After all, as aeroplane pilots, there is nothing surprising about our being in possession of a map. I’ve usually got one of some sort on me. In any case, we couldn’t have stopped them from taking them with the rest of our things; to have protested would only have called attention to them and aroused suspicion. Don’t think I wasn’t sorry to see them go out of our possession, but by saying nothing I hoped that they wouldn’t attach any particular importance to them.’
‘But suppose they were sharp enough to connect the doubloon and the map?’ insisted Dick plaintively.
But Biggles did not answer. He was standing by the window gazing down at the road that wound round to the harbour. Slowly, an expression of utter incredulity crept over his face.
‘What is it?’ asked Algy sharply, sensing disaster.
‘The answer, I fancy, to the circumstances of our peculiar reception here,’ replied Biggles tersely. ‘Take a look and see who’s walking down the path with our officious friend of the cadaverous face.’
Algy ran to the window. As he looked in the direction indicated his eyes grew round with wonder. ‘Heavens!’ he breathed. ‘It’s Deutch!’
Biggles laughed bitterly. ‘Astonishing though it may appear, I’m afraid you’re right,’ he said quietly. ‘So now we know. That makes everything as clear as daylight.’
‘But how in the name of goodness did he get here?’ asked Ginger.
Biggles thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets and bit his lower lip thoughtfully. ‘I must admit that such a possibility as his arrival here did not for one instant cross my mind,’ he confessed.
‘But how did he know we were coming here?’ argued Algy.
‘You haven’t by any chance forgotten the puddle outside our door in London, have you?’ inquired Biggles. ‘We suspected an eavesdropper, you remember. We even suspected that it was Deutch. He must have heard us decide on this place as a base and got here before us, which accounts for the fact that we saw no more of him in London, a circumstance which struck me at the time as odd. Very clever of him. It looks as if we have made the old and often fatal mistake of underestimating the calibre of our man. We shall know better in future. He got here ahead of us and has apparently managed to get on the right side of the not-too-particular people who run the place. As a sailor, he has probably been here before. Goodness knows what he has told them about us, but whatever it is you may be sure that it’s no good. In short, Mr Blessed Deutch has rather upset our carefully loaded applecart.’
‘But what about the map and the letter?’ cried Algy aghast. ‘I’ll warrant he’s got them by now.’
‘He hasn’t got the letter because, having committed to memory the rather meagre sailing directions, I left it where, in the event of our non-return, it will be handed over to Colonel Raymond at Scotland Yard, who might one day use it as evidence against friend Deutch.’
‘But the map?’ cried Algy again.
‘A fat lot of use that will be to him.’
‘What do you mean?’
Biggles permitted a slow smile to spread over his face. ‘I think you will agree that an incorrect map is worse than no map at all, since it leads one in the wrong direction. You see,’ he explained, ‘once I suspected that the astute Mr Deutch had followed us home in London, and always taking into consideration the possibility of his getting hold of the map – which, obviously, was what he wanted – I took the precaution of making certain alterations which, while of a minor nature, not only destroys its value, but makes it definitely misleading. Mr Deutch has been clever, but not quite clever enough. He thinks he’s won the first round. Has he? We shall see.’
‘And in the meantime, what are we going to do about it?’ inquired Algy.
‘Bar breaking out of this place, which seems to be a rather formidable proposition besides being of questionable wisdom, I don’t see that we can do anything except sit here and wait for the next move,’ murmured Biggles.
‘What! Do you think they’ll keep us here all night?’ inquired Ginger angrily.
‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ replied Biggles calmly. ‘Now that Mr Deutch has got what he wanted, they will probably keep us here until he gets a good start and then let us go.’
In which supposition Biggles was nearer the truth than he imagined, but not for one instant did he suspect how Deutch’s good start was to be achieved.
Little more was said. As the sun sank behind the jungle the sky turned swiftly from azure to egg-shell blue, and then to ever-darkening purple. Night came, and with it the heavy silence of the tropics. Wondering what the morning would bring, the prisoners settled themselves down to pass the night in the least uncomfortable positions they could find.
* A private aeroplane cannot just travel about the world from country to country as some people suppose. Before flying over a foreign country a pilot must first obtain permission in writing from the Government of that country. It will be understood, therefore, that when several countries are involved, the preparations for a long-distance flight are often a tedious and tiresome process, although the aero clubs of the countries concerned do their best to expedite permits and provide facilities. WEJ
* Spanish: I don’t understand.
* Spanish: Yes, yes.
* Spanish: Good day, Sir.
Chapter 6
Tragic Events
Fluted bars of soft mother-of-pearl light were filtering through the window when Biggles awoke with a start. He was on his feet in an instant. ‘Hark!’ he cried, as the others sat up in various degrees of wakefulness.
Vibrant on the still air came the roar of aero engines.
‘It’s only the Pan-American machine getting ready to take off,’ declared Algy, settling back again with a yawn.
Biggles darted to the window. Tan-American my foot!’ he cried. ‘It’s our machine!’
The others rushed to the window and stared down at the Sikorsky, which was taxi-ing slowly towards the mouth of the harbour, leaving two ever-widening ripples in its wake.
‘What the dickens are they going to do with her?’ muttered Ginger.
‘Perhaps they are just getting the Pan-American people to move her across to the other side out of the way, to make room for a ship, or something,’ suggested Algy optimistically.
‘Don’t you believe it,’ snapped Biggles. ‘That machine is being taken out of the harbour.’ His face was pale as he strode to the door and began beating a rapid tattoo on it with his fists.
Somewhat to his surprise, it was opened almost at once, by a policeman who
was evidently just coming in with their breakfasts, for he carried a tray on which was a jug, some cups, a loaf of bread and some fruit. Biggles brushed him aside, as he did two others who tried to stop him, and dashed out of the building and down the road that led to the wharf. But by the time he got there the machine was in the air, so after watching it impotently for a moment or two, he turned about, and with the others close behind, made for the Pan-American hangar, outside which two or three white-clad figures were standing watching the amphibian. The Americans turned to face the airmen as they ran up.
‘Did you fellows see who was in that machine?’ cried Biggles, waiving formalities.
‘Sure,’ answered one, a cheerful looking youth, evidently one of the company’s mechanics, for the well-known ‘flying wing’ trademark was embroidered on the breast of his overalls. That’s your ship, isn’t it?’ he added.
‘It is,’ returned Biggles tersely.
‘That’s what I told my buddy here,’ went on the mechanic. ‘I watched you bring her in yesterday. I saw you go ashore. Why didn’t you come down here to re-fuel, instead of carrying the gas all the way to the wharf?’
Biggles stared. ‘Carry the gas?’ he echoed in tones of astonishment. ‘What do you mean? We haven’t had a chance to refuel yet.’
‘Your ship was filled up last night by a bunch of guys who carried the stuff from our depot to the wharf.’
Biggles breathed heavily. ‘They took our papers and held us on a trumped-up charge of irregularity,’ he said bitterly. ‘It looks as if we’ve been swindled out of our machine.’
The other nodded sympathetically. ‘Yeah! I guess you’ve been framed.’
Another of the Americans laughed, but there was no humour on his face. ‘These skunks’d frame a mosquito for its hide,’ he drawled. ‘Looks like you’re in a jam.’
‘We are,’ agreed Biggles crisply. ‘I was prepared to be robbed, but I didn’t think they’d dare to go so far as to steal an aeroplane. Who took her, boys?’
‘Feller named Deutch and his partner. Anyway, Deutch was one of ’em. I saw him get in.’
Biggles caught his breath. ‘But he’s not a pilot,’ he said wonderingly.
‘No, but there’s a guy with him who is, according to what he says, although I ain’t seen his ticket. Deutch blew in here about a week ago with a guy named Harvey, asking about a machine. Harvey claimed that he could fly, and it looks like he told the truth.’
Biggles moistened his lips. ‘What have they been doing since they came here?’
‘Search me. They rolled up here together asking about hiring a ship, but when the boss asked to see the colour of their money they sheered off. I’ve seen them once or twice in the town with Mallichore, which was all I needed to put me wise that they were crooks.’
‘Who’s Mallichore?’
‘The Chief of Police. That’s his official title. He’s the big cheese here, runs the whole burg.’
‘Do you mean a cadaverous looking fellow with a yellow skin?’
‘That’s the boy. You wanna keep clear o’ him. He’s bad medicine.’
‘I’d have kept clear of him had I known what sort of a shark he was, you can bet your life on that,’ returned Biggles with bitter emphasis. ‘Did anyone see how many people got into my machine?’
‘Yeah,’ chipped in another mechanic who had appeared from the direction of the wharf while Biggles was speaking. ‘There was Deutch, his boozy looking pal Harvey, ‘Frisco Jack and Martinez.’
Biggles stared. ‘ ’Frisco Jack – Martinez! Who the dickens are they?’ he jerked out.
‘Good company for the other two,’ declared the mechanic who had just spoken. “Frisco Jack was one of Slick Ferrara’s boys in New York. He bolted here when the cops put him on the spot for plugging one of them. There ain’t no extradition here, so he can sit pretty. He runs a dive on the waterfront; he still packs a gun under his armpit, and he knows how to use it, so you’d be a sucker to start anything against him unless you had a machine-gun trained on him first.’
‘And the other fellow – Martinez?’
‘Pedro Martinez! He’s a black guy, besides which I guess he’s just about the slimiest thug who walks on two legs. He’s Mallichore’s bumper-off – does all his dirty work for him. The folks around here say he carries a razor in each pocket, and I guess they oughta know. A guy up on the hill told me he’s cut more throats than there are fish in the sea, and if ever you catch sight of him you won’t find it hard to believe that. Everyone here’s scared stiff of him. If he’s in your ship you can bet that Mallichore is in on the deal, whatever it may be.’
‘Sounds a nice little party,’ observed Biggles in a hard voice.
‘As nice as you’d find between Rio and I’ll old New York.’
Biggles thought swiftly. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see several armed police running down the hill, and he was in no doubt as to their mission. ‘Is your boss about?’ he asked.
‘Sure. Here he comes now. This is the Superintendent. The name’s Timms. You can bet on him for a square deal.’
Biggles turned quickly to meet a broad, cheerful-looking, thick-set man in spotless white ducks* who was coming towards them. ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I’ve just had my ship stolen.’
The Superintendent made a grimace. ‘Well, say!’ he ejaculated. ‘I saw her take off. Got me guessing when I saw you standing here.’
Biggles nodded. ‘I’m not letting them get away with it,’ he said grimly. ‘Have you got radio equipment here?’
‘Sure.’
‘Good,’ went on Biggles quickly. ‘Then just listen to this, because I can see a bunch of trouble coming down the hill. My name’s Bigglesworth. You can check up on it. We’re a private party cruising the Islands, and the ship you just saw take off is mine. I bought it off your people at Floyd Bennet Field last week. They’ll confirm that. There are fifty thousand dollars standing to my credit in the bank on which I drew the cheque. My letters of credit and cheque book have been taken off me, but I’m going to fetch them in a minute. I want another machine. What about the one you’ve got here? I’m open to buy it outright, or take it on charter, whichever way you prefer.’
The American looked serious. ‘I daren’t let you have this one,’ he said slowly. ‘She’s our reserve ship.’
‘Yes, I know that. How far away is the next one?’
‘Maracibo.’
‘They could fly it down here in a day, if you needed a spare.’
‘Mebbe.’
‘Will you get in touch with your people right away and see what you can do? I’m going up to get my things now, then I’ll be back. If your people say I can have the ship, fill up the tanks and start her up. I may be in a hurry. I’ll bring the cheque with me.’
‘OK. I’ll do my best.’
‘And as we haven’t had anything to eat for about twenty-four hours, if you could get a bit of grub aboard—’
The Superintendent waved his hand. ‘Leave it to me,’ he cried. ‘Watch how you go.’
‘Thanks!’ Biggles turned to face the party of police, or soldiers, who had now arrived on the scene. With them was the man in the tawdry uniform who had met them in the motor-boat, and he indicated in no uncertain manner that they were to return with him forthwith. Biggles needed no second invitation. His mouth was set in a hard line as, with the others behind him, he set off up the hill. Reaching the stone building, without stopping he strode straight through to the inner office.
Mallichore was sitting at his desk, but he started up as the airmen burst in, with the police at their heels. ‘Listen, you,’ snapped Biggles harshly, in English. ‘I’ve stood for about as much as I’m going to stand from you. My friends below are already sending a radio message through to the British Foreign Office for me. Get that? The British Foreign Office! I want my things – where are they?’
Mallichore evidently understood, or gathered from Biggles’s manner what he meant, for he pointed to the desk on which were piled the t
hings that had been taken from their pockets. He spoke quickly in Spanish, shrugging his shoulders and waving his hands melodramatically.
‘What does he say?’ asked Ginger.
Just what I expected he would. He’s full of apologies now. Says he’s very sorry indeed about the delay, but it is the usual procedure here.’
‘Ask him if it’s usual for people to have their ships stolen,’ growled Algy.
‘That won’t bring ours back, will it? Pah! What’s the use of arguing with the swine? He knows what’s happened as well as we do, and he knows we know, but it won’t do any good to talk about it. Let’s get out. If we can have the Pan-American machine we’ll find another base, if we have to go as far as the Bermudas.’
As he spoke, Biggles began picking up the things from the desk and handing them to their respective owners. At last nothing was left. ‘Anyone lost anything?’ he asked.
‘My doubloon,’ replied Dick. The dirty hound has pinched my doubloon.’
‘I thought the sight of a piece of gold would be too much for him,’ muttered Biggles. ‘I’ve got everything except the map, not counting a hundred dollar bill that has been taken out of my notecase. I don’t think it’s any use fighting about it. The sooner we are out of this the better.’
He had half turned towards the door when Dick caught him by the arm. ‘Look!’ he said. There’s my doubloon, under the glass.’
Biggles followed the direction of his eyes and saw the coin lying as Dick had described it. It was as if Mallichore had been in the act of examining it when the others had made their abrupt entry, and he had pushed it hurriedly out of sight – as he thought.
Vicious irritation surged through Biggles at the paltry theft. With his eyes on the coin, he took a quick pace forward and stretched out his hand to pick it up, but Mallichore was too quick.
‘Why, you dirty crook!’ snarled Biggles. Losing his temper and clenching his fists, he took a flying leap over the desk to get at the thief.
‘Look out!’ Algy yelled the warning.