Nearly four hundred miles behind the tail of the aircraft as it headed south, on the coast of the Timor Sea, lay Port Darwin, its last port of call. Ahead, the monotonous panorama, marked only by an occasional fringe
of gloomy pines, rolled on to a hopeless horizon, beyond which, somewhere, a scratch in the earth's crust had been named Barula Creek.
A fortnight had elapsed since the conversation at the Air Police Operational Headquarters, as a result of which, and a subsequent conference with Air Commodore Raymond at Scotland Yard, the journey to Australia had been undertaken. Biggles made no secret of the fact that he did not expect to find anything where Australia's celebrated black trackers had failed; but, as he averred, there was nothing to work on at home, so there could be no harm in trying. He had one or two cards up his sleeve, as will in due course be revealed.
The Air Commodore had been in touch with the Dominion Police, and having explained the possible international nature of the robbery, was invited to investigate on the spot if he thought it worth while. Algy, as Biggles' second-in-command, had remained at home ready to deal with a repetition of the affair should it occur, or fly to the support of Marcel should the French pilot strike a promising trail before the Australian expedition returned. Actually, it suited him to stay, because he had an appointment with his dentist.
"We ought to be getting close," remarked Biggles to Ginger, who was sitting next to him, after a glance at the time. "Keep your eyes open. With the landscape all looking alike we could overshoot the mine if we were slightly off our course. Is that something straight ahead or is it just another outcrop of rock?"
"I should say that's it," returned Ginger, a minute later, as the object to which Biggles had called attention took on a more regular shape, and finally resolved itself into a cluster of buildings.
There was no need to look far for a landing-ground, for most of the country around the hutments that comprised the Barula Creek gold workings was flat and treeless. The creek that gave the place its name was presumably a
dried-up river-bed that started in some distant mountains and lost itself in the desert near the mine. The buildings were more extensive than Ginger had thought they would be, and suggested that a fair number of people were employed at this remote enterprise.
Biggles landed without trouble, and after taxying nearer to the buildings, got out, the others with him, and walked the rest of the way. Two men were already coming to meet them. Both were tall, powerfully built and sunburnt, wearing drill breeches with open-necked shirts and broad-rimmed hats. They greeted the airmen in a friendly manner but with evident surprise.
"Where have you come from?" asked one.
"From England," answered Biggles.
"That's a long way."
"Planes fly a long way nowadays," remarked Biggles, smiling. "From what I've heard, it seems that highway robbers travel far and fast, too."
"Is that what you've come about?"
"It is."
"Come to the office and have a drink."
"Thanks. It is pretty warm out here."
On the way Biggles introduced himself and his companions. The mine officials returned the compliment. One, John Brand, was the manager, and the other, George Symonds, was his assistant. It turned out that they had had no warning of Biggles's mission.
However, refreshments were produced, and they all sat in cane chairs on the office verandah to discuss the matter.
"Frankly, I don't expect to find much," admitted Biggles.
"I shall be surprised if you find anything," was the equally frank rejoinder.
"The only reason I came was this," explained Biggles. "We're not ordinary police investigators. We specialise on the air angle of crime, and there's just a chance that an aircraft was used to lift your gold. No doubt you've had expert trackers all over the ground, in which case, in the ordinary way, we should be flattering ourselves if we suggested that we might find something they'd missed. But they're not used to aircraft.
We are. There are cer tain tricks of the trade, and we're properly equipped to deal with them. If I do no more than confirm that an aircraft was used for the robbery, my trip will have been worth while."
Brand thumbed his pipe. "I see. Well, we'll help you all we can. The man who can catch these crooks who shot my men is my friend for life."
"How far are we from the place where the hold-up occurred?"
"Close on a hundred miles. The district is called Sandy Bottoms. You'll see nothing if you go there."
"I'd like to see it, all the same," returned Biggles. "Would you mind showing it to me?"
"Sure I will. How do you reckon to get there?" "Flying would be the quickest way, if there's somewhere handy to land."
"There won't be any difficulty about that," asserted Brand. "There's all the room in the world."
"That's fine. Then while we're having a breather you might tell me as much as you know about the affair," suggested Biggles.
Brand puffed at his pipe. "There isn't a lot to tell. We know how the job was done.
Trackers soon worked that out. As you know, we used two jeeps to transport the gold, which was in the form of ingots. It's ideal country for them. The load was split between them. Five men made the trip, three in the first jeep, and two in the second. We didn't expect trouble. We'd never had any, but we believed in playing safe. The jeeps followed the usual track. At Sandy Bottoms there's a kind of knoll, with some scrub. The track skirts it. Here the leading jeep ran on a land-mine. At least, that's what it looks like. I was in North Africa in the war, so I know what a mine can do. All three men in the jeep must have been killed outright. The second jeep pulled up. As the two men in it jumped out they were shot down by gunmen hidden in the scrub, about ten yards away. They hadn't a chance. According to my trackers, and they don't make mistakes, there were three gunmen. They all wore shoes soled with ribbed crepe rubber, which made them look alike. That may have been to confuse trackers, but you can't fool a black boy. One was a tall man with a slight limp in his right leg. One was shorter and more heavily built, and the third was a little chap. There were plenty of tracks round the jeeps of course, because it took these fellows some time to shift the gold. But there was nothing else, not even a cartridge case; but we know that the bullets that killed our fellows were fired from
.303 service rifles."
"What became of the tracks?" asked Biggles. "They must have led somewhere."
They faded out in the desert quite close to where the hold-up took place. After that the thieves might have taken wing and flown away for all the signs they left."
"You may be right, at that," said Biggles. "We'll fly over presently and take a few vertical photographs of the area."
Brand seemed surprised. "What can photos show you that can't be seen with your own eyes on the ground?"
"Curiously enough, the camera can see what the eye can't see," answered Biggles. "It can see through sand, for instance. In Egypt the camera has located buried cities. At home it has pin-pointed Roman camps under farm-lands, although there isn't a sign of them at ground level."
"And what do you reckon your camera might see at Sandy Bottoms?" Brand was clearly sceptical.
"Tracks."
"What sort of tracks?"
"Well, hardened wheel-tracks, for instance."
"Had there been any tracks my boys would have found them. Fresh-made tracks would be on top of the ground, not under it."
"Not necessarily," argued Biggles. "An aircraft can kick up a cloud of dust which, when it settles, can smother everything."
Brand sucked on his pipe. "I didn't think of that."
"At all events, there are wheel tracks there, that's certain," asserted Biggles.
"Why certain?"
"Because I refuse to believe that three men, or even a dozen men, carried boxes containing half a ton of gold ingots on their backs, with the water they would require, out of that blistering desert I've just flown over. If you argue that it's just possible, then I say such a
trip would take weeks, in which case someone would have seen these fellows. No, Brand, these men rode. If they rode they used a vehicle, and all vehicles have wheels, including aircraft. Even if they used pack-horses or mules there would still be tracks."
"I guess you're right," conceded Brand.
"There's one thing that puzzles me," went on Biggles. "These bandits didn't just park themselves in the desert on the off-chance of a load of gold coming along. They knew when it was due. How did they know? Was the information made public?"
"No, although I can't say we took particular care to keep the date a secret," replied Brand. "We didn't advertise it, if that's what you mean."
"Well, the bandits weren't guessing," replied Biggles. "I take it you can trust your staff?"
"Absolutely. It's months since any one of them left the mine, anyway. They get one holiday a year. when they go to Melbourne to see the Cup."
"Have you had any visitors lately?"
Brand thought for a minute. "I can only think of one. There was a chap dropped in, now you come to mention it. But he was a newspaper man, doing a story on the outback."
"Who said so?"
"He did."
"And you took his word for it?"
"Didn't seem to be any reason why I shouldn't." "How long ago was this?"
"Not long before the hold-up. I can't remember the actual date."
"How did this chap arrive?"
"Same way as you, in an airplane."
Biggles caught Ginger's eye. Then he looked back at Brand. "Was he alone?"
"Yes."
"I imagine he told you his name?"
"Sure he did. It was Canton—Dick Canton."
"What sort of plane did he come in?"
"Couldn't say. I don't know anything about planes. It was only a little machine—had two seats. The colour was a sort of brownish green. I recall hearing one of my boys say it was an American make."
"Where did this fellow come from, and where did he go when he left here?"
Brand frowned. "In this part of the world we don't ask personal questions. We leave a fellow to tell us as much as he wants us to know."
"It might be a good thing if you did ask a few questions, in future," said Biggles drily. "I take it this chap was British?"
"He talked like a Britisher fresh from England—you know, a bit la-de-dah."
Biggles smiled. "How long did he stay here?"
"He came in the morning, had lunch with us, and left in the afternoon."
"Was the gold mentioned?"
"Of course. That's what he came about. He wanted the facts for the story he was doing for his paper. I don't remember exactly what I told him. He spoke to other people besides me."
"He could have learned that the gold was ready to be moved?"
"Of course. Are you suggesting ?"
"I'm not suggesting anything, yet," interposed Biggles. "Like this visitor of yours, I'm just collecting all the facts I can while I'm here. What sort of fellow was he in appearance?"
"Towny type, blue suit an' all that. Height about five foot six roughly, thin, and very dark. I'd put his age about thirty-five. Had a little black moustache. Brushed his hair straight back without a parting, I remember. Said he did it to hide a wound in the head he got in the war. He was always fiddling with it."
Biggles lit a cigarette. "I find this all very interesting," he said. "When would it be convenient for you to fly over with me and have a look at Sandy Bottoms?"
"When do you want to go?"
"It would suit me to go now. The sun's practically overhead. That's the best angle for the photos I want." "Are you going to land?"
"Not yet. I don't want my own tracks to interfere with any on the ground. I'll get the photos and develop them first. We've brought the equipment."
"All right, let's go," agreed Brand, rising.
In a few minutes the machine was in the air again, heading north. Brand, sitting next to Biggles, pointed out the track taken by the jeeps, a thin, faint, wavy line that sometimes disappeared in scrub or on beds of shingle.
Half an hour later, cruising at five thousand feet, they arrived over the objective, plainly marked by the knoll and the shattered jeep at the base of it. The second jeep, Brand said, had been towed home. For the rest, the terrain was a sandy waste, spotted with salt-bush, that had obviously given the place its name.
"There's one thing about this that doesn't fit with your idea," remarked Brand.
"What is it?"
"If a plane was parked out there on the Bottoms the boys in the jeeps would have seen it when they came along."
Biggles agreed. "But," he pointed out, "they wouldn't have seen it had it been standing on the opposite side of the knoll. If it comes to that, the machine could have been a mile away when the hold-up took place. It could have been taxied to the spot afterwards."
"You've always got the answer ready," admitted Brand.
Biggles grinned. "That's my job," he averred, and then warned Ginger on the inter-corn to stand by. Under his instructions, as he made two parallel runs over the objective, Ginger exposed twelve plates. They then returned to the mine, and leaving Ginger and Bertie to develop the plates, Biggles went back with Brand to the verandah to continue the discussion until the prints were ready. Brand, with true Australian hospitality, insisted that they should all share his table while they were there.
IV
THE TRAIL TAKES SHAPE
IN due course Bertie appeared with the first prints. They were still wet. "I think we've got something here, old boy," he said briskly, putting the prints on the table and handing Biggles the magnifying glass. He pointed. "If those aren't wheel tracks I'll eat the label in my hat. They're faint, and all that, but they're there."
Biggles studied the picture intently. "You're right," he said slowly. "Those are certainly wheel tracks—very interesting wheel tracks, too." He looked up at Brand. "Is there any possibility of anyone using a vehicle of any sort in the region of Sandy Bottoms, apart from your own jeeps?"
"Not the remotest," declared Brand. "I shouldn't think anyone since time began has taken a vehicle across Sandy Bottoms—except, of course, on the track. As far as I know, no one except ourselves ever used the track."
Biggles handed him the magnifying glass. "Take a look. You can see the marks. Did your trackers cover that ground?"
"I think so. They made casts all round the place. I was with them. Those tracks weren't there then, I'll swear, or they'd have seen them. But half a minute. That's a queer sort of track, isn't it? Looks like it was made by something with three wheels."
"I rather fancy it was," returned Biggles softly.
"The only thing I know with three wheels is a tricycle."
"Most big aeroplanes have three wheels," Biggles pointed out. "Two landing-wheels and a tail wheel."
"And you think this was made by one of them?"
"No, I don't, although it's just possible. Those three lines are absolutely parallel. Unless the machine made a perfect three-point landing and ran absolutely straight, the inside track, made by the tail wheel, would wobble a bit. Any slight obstruction would probably cause the middle line to wag a bit. The definition of the middle line would vary, too, as the machine touched down, before the weight became evenly distributed on all three wheels."
Brand looked puzzled. "Then what's the answer?"
"There's another sort of landing-gear which has two main wheels and a smaller one in front. It's known, technically, as a tricycle undercarriage, and that's precisely what it is.
The even spacing of the tracks we're looking at incline me to the view that they were made by such a device. But this is something I can think about at leisure. We mustn't take up too much of your time. Let's go back. I know just where to land, now, in order to try the experiment I have in mind. We'll go as soon as we've had dinner, if that's okay with you? If you'd bring one of your trackers along I'd be glad." Biggles smiled. "We may even be able to show him something."
"He'll soo
n spot those tracks."
"Had they been visible he would have seen them when he was there," said Biggles quietly. "I shall land in line with them just where they fade out. Not that they'll be there for us to see, you understand? I fancy they're under the sand, not on it. I'm hoping I shall be able to expose them."
"You mean, brush the loose sand off them?"
"Not brush it off—blow it off. You'll see."
As soon as the meal was finished the aircraft headed back to the scene of the hold-up, Brand having with him his most experienced tracker, a shock-headed, wizened old aboriginal named Joe. Biggles took the greatest possible care over his landing, making three trial runs before touching down. Not a breath of air stirred, which enabled him to choose his direction. As soon as the machine had finished its run he turned it in its own length so that its tail pointed straight down the estimated position of the wheel tracks—
estimated, because they were certainly not there to be seen. Leaving the engines running they all got down. To Brand, Biggles said: "You saw the photo. Do you agree that we're now just about at the end of those tracks?"
Brand said he did.
"V, ell, where are the tracks?"
Brand tilted up his hat and scratched his head. "They aren't there," he said in a curious voice.
"Ask Joe if the sand we're looking at is packed hard, or fresh."
Brand obliged. Joe knelt, touched the sand with his fingers, and smelt it. Bent double, he quartered the ground like a gun-dog. Returning, he stated that the sand behind the aeroplane was loose.
"Good," said Biggles. "We'll see if we can move some of it. Bertie, get aboard and make some wind—not too much."
Bertie climbed up. The engines growled. The sand began to creep, like a long trickle of water, here and there, making little whirlpools. As the noise increased to a roar a cloud of dust swirled aft into the thin air. As it did so a curious thing happened. Slowly there appeared on the ground three parallel lines, running across the arid earth, becoming fainter in the distance.
40 Biggles Works It Out Page 3