"What is it?" Bertie spoke with difficulty through parched lips.
"Biggles might be at Insalah, waiting for us."
"Why should he wait?"
"He might think, knowing we're here, that if he came over he might start something—
make things more difficult for us to get away."
Bertie nodded. "I never thought of that. In that case it's no use sitting here."
But still they sat for a little while, not knowing what else to do. At last Algy got up. "I'm going to see if I can find a cave or something. We've got to get out of this sun, or we shan't last till nightfall. Personally, I'd risk anything for a drink."
Keeping well back from the ridge, they went on again for some little way. The sun was now falling towards the west, and slim black shadows were beginning to reappear; but the ground in such places, having been exposed to the sun, was too hot to sit on.
"If we had rifles," said Bertie, "I'd risk an attack on the valley. Or we could make a diversion while someone grabbed some water."
"We haven't any rifles," rejoined Algy impatiently.
Emile, who up to now had taken no part in the conversation, went off to do some scouting on his own account. When he returned he had this to say. He had been along to the end of the valley. There were, he stated, some casualties lying near the mouth of the ravine where the machines had been parked. There were rifles lying near them. There was also a fair amount of smoke, perhaps enough to cover them while they fetched the rifles. He was willing to try for the rifles.
"We'll all go," declared Algy. "Just a minute." He snapped a shot from his automatic into the valley. "Just to make 'em think the Tuareg are still here and encourage them to stay indoors," he explained.
Little dreaming of the revelations that were to be the outcome of their sortie, they started moving along the side of the valley, keeping more or less parallel with it but well below the danger line of the ridge. In doing this they made their first discovery. It was not a nice one. It was the body of a white man, apparently one of the sentries. Unfortunately his rifle and cartridges were not there. The Tuareg, Emil thought, would take them, for in the desert a high price is put upon such things.
They carried on, and after a while found a place from which a reasonably safe reconnaissance of their objective could be made. A buttress of rock intervened between them and that part of the valley where the buildings stood. Here again the spectacle was one of tragedy. Near the entrance to the ravine, lying as they had fallen, were several bodies. There were two Arabs. Here the weapons had not been collected; they lay beside their owners, who would never need them again. The scene in the ravine itself was one of devastation. The whole place had been
burnt out, and was still smoking. Through the murk could be seen the metal skeletons of the aircraft.
"By the way, the place doesn't seem to be what you might call swarming with ibex,"
remarked Bertie.
"I'd say they were all liquidated long ago," replied Algy.
He looked for some time at the bodies. "Let's get what we came for and clear out," he said suddenly. "This is turning out to be a nastier affair than I expected. Thank heavens the sun will soon be behind those hills. The worst of the heat is over, but we've got to have water."
Bertie touched him on the arm and pointed. "That looks mighty like Odenski lying over there."
Algy looked. And as he stared he thought he saw the body move slightly. "Whoever it is he's still alive. We'd better go and see. Watch out for treachery."
They made their way cautiously to the object of their inquiry, collecting rifles and ainmunition as they went.
"It is Odenski," said Bertie. "He and the others must have gone down trying to keep the Arabs out of the ravine."
The prostrate man may have heard the sound of voices, for, with an obvious effort, he half-raised his head. "Water," he pleaded weakly. "Water."
Algy hurried forward. "What's the trouble, Odenski?" "Water. Give me water."
It was obvious to Algy that the man was in a bad way. With a thrill of horror he realized that he must have been lying there all day. His own men had left him there, or had not troubled to look for him. Such brutal behaviour filled Algy with anger.
"Water," pleaded Odenski.
"I haven't any," answered Algy. He made a quick examination. "Got it in the stomach,"
he told Bertie in a soft aside. "He hasn't a hope."
"The rats. The dirty rats." Odenski seemed to be muttering to himself.
"They've gone," said Algy, thinking, naturally, that he meant the Tuareg.
"Save themselves . . . that's all they cared." The wounded man's mind was wandering towards that place from which there is no return.
Algy dropped on one knee, frowning. "Who are you talking about?"
"Von Stalhein and Groot."
"You mean—they left you?"
"Von Stalhein shot me."
"Shot you!" This was something Algy did not expect. Furrows of doubt and incredulity creased his forehead. "But why should they shoot you?"
Anger seemed to give the wounded man fresh strength. "I saw them creep off towards the ravine. Left us to hold the Arabs while they got out, the curs. I went after them. Von Stalhein told me to get back. The plane would only carry two, he said. I told him he was yellow. Then he pulled a gun and plugged me. Went off with Groot
. left me here. Water . . . get me water."
"Why didn't your men come?" asked Algy wrathfully. "They did . . . for the keys . . . of the canteen," was the shocking answer.
The face that Algy turned to Bertie was pale and drawn with indignation. "This is awful.
We must get this wretched fellow a drink. He hasn't much longer. Hark!"
From the buildings round the corner came the sound of voices raised in ribald song. "
Could you believe that?" he said through his teeth. "They found Odenski, took the keys of the canteen, and left him here. Now they're all drunk. No wonder they didn't bother with us. What a pack of swine they must be! Let's try to get some water."
"The well is up near the palms," volunteered Bertie.
Algy ran forward to the buttress and looked round the end. Evening shadows were now softening the picture, but he could see two or three bodies lying near the palms.
There was no movement anywhere. "I think we might do it," he said. "It's worth risking."
"I know where the can is kept," said Emile, and before anyone could stop him he was racing, bending low, towards the palms.
Algy dropped on one knee, loaded his rifle quickly. brought it to the ready and waited. "
Shoot if you see anything move," he told Bertie tersely.
The fact that Emile was not shot at until he was well on his way back may have been partly due to a diversion which, while not unexpected, coming when it did had an almost demoralizing effect. With a roar a Mosquito came tearing up the valley. Algy was torn between looking at it and at Emile, who finished his mad dash with bullets kicking up the sand at his feet. He stuck to the can of water he carried, and panting, held it out to Algy.
Algy hastened to Odenski, but stopped suddenly. "Too late," he said. "He's gone."
"Put the water in a safe place where we can get at it," suggested Algy practically.
After they had all had a quick drink Algy complied. But he was now more concerned with the aircraft, which he had recognized as Biggles's machine. Its arrival reintroduced the problem that had been worrying him for some time. Not that there was anything he could do. It was no use waving and expecting to be seen. In the end he adhered to the original plan. As the machine came in to land, as he expected it would, he, Bertie, and Emile opened a brisk fire on the canteen, from which, from some reason not then apparent, there came little answering fire. The one or two shots that were fired had no effect.
The Mosquito touched down in the middle of the valley, its nose pointing in the direction of the ravine. Algy, throwing discretion to the winds, raced towards it, waving frantically. Th
at he had been seen was soon evident, for there was a burst of throttle and the Mosquito came on, tail up.
The noise alone must by now have given Biggles an idea of what was happening, for Bertie and Emile were shooting at the canteen as fast as they could load. The fact that they were there at all must have told Biggles something, too.
Anyway, in response to Algy's furious beckoning Biggles ran the machine on until it was behind the buttress; then, followed by Ginger, he jumped down and ran for cover.
Wonder was written all over his face. He glanced at the smoking wreckage in the ravine, and at the bodies lying about, before his eyes came to rest on Algy. "What in thunder is going on here?" he rapped out.
"You might well ask," retorted Algy. "We're having a great time."
"I can see that," answered Biggles grimly. "I don't know that Joudrier is going to be too pleased about this when he gets here."
"We didn't start it, old boy," protested Bertie.
"Who did?"
"A bunch of Arabs mopped the place up," informed Bertie. "We told them not to, the blighters, but they wouldn't take any notice of us—would they, Algy?"
Algy shook his head. "No notice at all."
"You'd better put me wise so that I shall know where I am when Joudrier comes,"
requested Biggles. "It looks to me as if you've stolen his party."
"You can bet your sweet life we didn't steal it from choice," averred Algy warmly.
Then he told Biggles all about it.
It was nearly dark by the time he had finished. Even before that they could hear aircraft in the distance.
Marcel's Morane was the first to appear, although it was soon followed by a Dakota which apparently it had escorted. Marcel dived, tore up the valley, came round in a climbing turn and then side-slipped in. Before his wheels had touched the Dakota had appeared, and the air vibrated with the roar of engines.
"This looks like the beginning of the end," remarked Biggles, who stood watching.
"Shouldn't we try to warn them that they're liable to be shot at?" queried Ginger.
"Somehow I don't think there'll be much shooting," answered Biggles. "When these dud Prophets see what they're up against they'll throw in the towel. They must know that without transport they can't get away, and it isn't going to make their case any better if they shoot a policeman."
It fell out much as Biggles predicted. When Marcel landed he saw the Mosquito and taxied on to it. The Dakota followed, slowly, shedding a surprisingly powerful force of gendarmes. It was clear that Joudrier was taking no risks.
From all sides the police closed in on the building. Those who were already there joined in the operation, to see the finish, although this bore little resemblance to what might have been imagined. Only one or two shots were fired. One gendarme was wounded in the thigh. He was the only casualty.
When the final rush was made on the canteen an extraordinary spectacle greeted the eyes of the spectators. For a minute Joudrier was speechless with bewilderment. "And we thought this was a religious house!" cried he, throwing up his hands. His indignation was understandable. Of the nine survivors of the Tuareg attack not one was sober. Five were on the floor, completely out. Bottles and glasses lay about to bear witness to the fantastic orgy that had taken place.
"What a mob," breathed Biggles, "Heavens above, what a mob! When a gang of crooks breaks up it usually goes to pieces, but I never saw anything like this."
Joudrier came over. "Tonight we stay here." he said. "Tomorrow we will clean up."
"We'll stay for the performance," answered Biggles. "You're welcome to the job. I'm still hoping to find the gold for our friends in Australia." He turned to Bertie. "You know your way about. Find us somewhere to sleep."
XVI
WHERE THE TRAILS ENDED
THE following day saw the end of El Asile as a white settlement, religious or otherwise.
Captain Joudrier, as the senior French official, took charge, with Marcel as his assistant, so Biggles and his friends remained really as spectators. They needed a rest, for since the case had opened they had covered a lot of ground, as Biggles had predicted would happen when big criminal enterprises were conducted on wings.
The dead "Prophets" were buried alongside the Tuareg who had died in pursuit of vengeance. The surviving white men, in handcuffs, were loaded into the Dakota under an armed guard and flown to Algiers. Later they were taken to Paris, where they were dealt with according to their misdeeds. As so often happens, these miserable men turned on each other at the finish, hoping by this to get a lighter sentence, with the result that there was no dearth of evidence to secure their conviction.
Biggles's chief interest--indeed, his only remaining interest—in El Asile now was the recovery of the Australian gold which he was convinced was there. A good deal of mystery still surrounded this gold. No one had seen a particle of it. There was no doubt whatever in Biggles's mind that the Count's gang had been responsible for the robbery, but belief was not proof, and proof was what a court of law would demand. One ounce of the gold would be enough. An assayer would soon determine where it came from. But none could be found. The only material known to have been carried by air was the black-ish powder described as fertilizer. A fair quantity of this had been found at the Villa Hirondelle. There was
some in the Douglas that Algy had put down in the desert.
Biggles had given a lot of thought to this puzzling factor. He had not yet had an opportunity of examining the stuff, and was pleased when Joudrier called him to say that a further quantity had been discovered and he would like an opinion on it.
They all went to the isolated stone building, the original building erected by Monsieur Bourdau, where the discovery had been made. Biggies had not so far been inside this because there had been some difficulty in getting it open. As a matter of detail it turned out to be the only room about which there was anything remarkable, the other buildings comprising workshops and living accommodation.
The large chamber into which Joudrier now led the way contained equipment which at first glance appeared to have no possible purpose at a desert oasis. It was something between a foundry and a laboratory. There was a long bench on which stood a small furnace fed by a gas cylinder on the floor. Scattered about were porcelain dishes, crucible tongs, and other miscellaneous utensils commonly associated with such things.
Flush against the wall were two large slate bins, or troughs, containing liquid. Beside these were several straw-covered carboys, some containing liquid, some empty. On a table was a box containing white powder. Finally, on the floor there were several small jute bags containing what, according to the name printed boldly on the outside, was fertilizer. Some empty bags lay nearby. There were other things, but these need not be described. The air in the room was heavy with an acrid smell which reminded Ginger of chlorine.
All these things Biggles examined with a curious expression on his face. "Well, well,"
he said softly
"Emile told me that Odenski was a chemist. He acted as a doctor when one was needed,"
said Bertie. "It looks as if this is where he amused himself in his spare time."
"Amused himself?" Biggles smiled. "This is where he worked. And this outfit was his surgery. The stuff isn't fertilizer, of course, although it might get by people who don't know what we know. Let's see if we can find out what it really is." He turned to Joudrier.
"With your permission, Monsieur le Capitaine, I will try an experiment, one that I once saw demonstrated in the laboratory at school when I was a boy. I hope I haven't forgotten the details."
In silence, watched by the others, he lit the jet of the furnace and turned the burner low.
Then, using crucible tongs, he filled a porcelain dish with some of the liquid contained in one of the troughs. This he stood on the burner.
"What is that liquid?" asked Ginger.
"Never interrupt a trick in the middle," said Biggles seriously. Then be smiled. "Knowing what you suffer
from impatience. I'd better tell you. If my guess is right, most of it is gold."
Even Joudrier looked astonished, and more than slightly sceptical at this reply.
No one spoke as Biggles added to the liquid some of the white powder from the box.
"What's that stuff?" Ginger wanted to know.
"There's no name on it, but if this set-up is what I take it to be, it should be iron sulphate,
" answered Biggles. "Watch. Ah-ha." A note of triumph crept into his voice.
Peering forward, the spectators saw a dark brown powder appear at the bottom of the dish.
"What's that?" demanded Ginger.
"Fertilizer," returned Biggles sarcastically. "Don't be in a hurry." He poured the liquid off, returned the dish to the furnace and turned up the flame. The powder settled down into a small gleaming yellow disc. This he poured on the bench. "You needn't ask me what that is," he bantered, glancing at Ginger.
"Gold!"
"Quite right. The stuff they dig out of the ground at Barula Creek."
"Well, blow me down!" gasped Bertie.
"One never knows when the simple chemistry one learns at school is going to be useful,"
said Biggles. His smile broadened. "A mixture of nitric and muriatic acids, boiled, is one of the few things that will dissolve gold. I imagine those carboys over there contain acid.
Not many people would recognize gold in its liquid form; but as it wouldn't be easy to handle like that, our prophetic friends turned it into a substance that might easily pass for the fertilizer known as basic slag. Add sulphate of iron to the liquid, and the gold is precipitated—but you saw what happened. When I heated the precipitate it returned to its original form of metallic gold." He tossed the apparatus on the bench.
"It's all plain enough now," he went on, lighting a cigarette. "Gold is controlled, checked and double-checked, by every country in the world. Stolen gold, as freight, is red hot—
that is, if it's in its usual form, which anyone can recognize. A machine carrying it wouldn't dare to land at an airport. Indeed, a machine landing anywhere would find a cargo of gold hard to explain. The same risk would be present with surface craft. The Count hit upon the scheme of making it unrecognizable; or it may have been Odenski's idea. It was a simple trick. Remember, it was not only the Count who was handling the stuff. Black-market merchants, like the Roumanians who were mentioned, were buying it from him. They, too, would have to transport it, and no doubt they preferred it in the form of dust rather than ingots. Well, there it is. Now we know the answers. The gold will have to be collected and sent back to where it belongs." Biggles turned to Joudrier. "
40 Biggles Works It Out Page 15