by W E Johns
Bertie advanced through fog which, while thick in patches, was now definitely less dense than it had been earlier. This, he thought, was more due to the breeze than the sun, which was now on its way down for the night. He kept an eye on the boat in case the man on deck should be joined by another, or others who might have been left on board. A disadvantage lay in not knowing the size of the crew, but he felt confident that the gang had not returned.
Curiously enough, perhaps because the man on deck was making so much noise himself, and Bertie did not care if he was seen, he actually reached the little natural quay to which the launch was tied up without being noticed. In fact, he had to speak to the Negro, a big powerfully built fellow, to call attention to himself. This he did because he had resolved not to use force if it could be avoided. A ruse might better serve his purpose. He had thought of one on his way down, and this he now put to the test.
‘Hi, there!’ he hailed. ‘Are you Mr Raulstein’s man?’
With a start of surprise the Negro looked round from what he was doing. After regarding Bertie for a second or two without animosity, he replied, ‘Howdy. Sure. We got Mr Raulstein with us. Why?’
‘Is he on board?’
‘No, mister. He’s gone ashore with the boss.’
‘You mean the one with the captain’s cap?’
‘That’s right. Mr Read.’
‘Mr Read owns the boat?’
‘Sure does. What’s the trouble?’
‘I’ve brought a message from him. He wants you to join him right away. You’ll find him a mile or two along the coast.’ Bertie pointed the direction.
‘What’s he want me for, mister? Does he say?’
‘I think he’s got a digging job on hand, so if you’ve got a pick and shovel you’d better take them with you. Is anyone else on board?’
‘No. Only me. I’m the cook.’
The man appeared to find nothing remarkable in all this. Actually there was no reason why he should. At all events he did not question it. ‘I get it,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Thanks, mister.’ He went below, presently to return with a spade and a crow-bar.
‘You go on,’ advised Bertie. ‘You’ll travel faster than me. It’s easy now the fog’s cleared a bit. I’ll be along presently.’
‘Like you say, mister. Thanks for bringing the message.’ Shouldering the tools, the ingenuous Negro stepped ashore and without any more questions set off up the track as fast as he could go.
Bertie, well satisfied, watched him. To get rid of the man had been easy. Easier than he had dared to hope. Yet, after all, he pondered, there was no reason why the man should disbelieve him. The message would sound genuine. Why should he doubt it? He waited until the victim of his trick had faded into the mist that still clung to the top of the cliff, and then lost no time in setting about the purpose that had brought him to the spot. He went below.
It did not take him long to find the galley. There, as he had anticipated, were the provisions for the cruise. Plenty of them; mostly, of course, in cans. Half a side of bacon hung on a hook. On a slab was some meat cut up ready for the pot. Beside it lay a string of onions. Looking about for a receptacle, he found on the floor a sack half full of potatoes. He tipped them out. Working fast, for with daylight fading there was a risk of Raulstein and Co. returning, he filled the sack to make a comfortable load and prepared to depart forthwith.
He hesitated as a thought occurred to him, one that had not been in his programme. Actually, as he was taking a last look round, a large can of paraffin standing on the floor may have been the source of his inspiration. The launch was in his hands. This was never likely to happen again, so why not make the most of it? Why leave the crooks free to leave the island when it suited them? Perhaps taking Tommy with them. And the jewels, if they had forced him to divulge their whereabouts. Once they had secured what they had come for, they would not stay a minute longer than was necessary.
All this flashed through Bertie’s mind in a moment of time. He perceived it was now in his power to prevent anything like that happening. By putting the launch out of action. How? By sinking it? Even if he could find the sea-cock, that would take time. Why not destroy the launch completely? That would hold the crooks prisoner on the island until Fraser could make arrangements for their arrest. Fire could be the answer. The means were at hand.
He emptied the paraffin on the floor. Into the puddle he threw some dirty dish-cloths. A match did the rest. With flames spreading, he picked up his sack and hurrying to the deck jumped ashore. He did not linger, but went up the cliff track faster than he had come down it. Only once did he pause to look back, to see the launch already enveloped in oily black smoke. He wondered from what distance it would be seen. Not far, he decided, unless the fog dispersed completely.
Reaching the top of the cliff, he set off for home; that is, the cabin. There was still a certain amount of fog hanging about, more than there had been at sea level; but it was patchy. For this he had reason to be thankful, or he might have found himself in trouble. He had covered less than half the distance to the cabin when he heard voices coming from the fog in front of him. As there was only one party on the island to do any talking, he dived into the nearest trees and lay still.
From this safe hiding-place it was with almost malicious satisfaction that he saw Raulstein and the rest of his gang hurry past in a sort of panic. He would have derived more pleasure from the spectacle had Tommy not been with them. But he was, held by the arm by the Negro cook, who must have dumped his tools somewhere, for he no longer carried them. So Tommy had not been able to get away, Bertie reflected sadly as he picked up his sack and continued on his way. But still, he consoled himself, he had done what he had set out to do, and it would be unreasonable to expect everything to go in his favour.
Before reaching the cabin, his self-congratulations on the success of his exploit suffered a jolt when he heard voices behind him, drawing closer as if the speakers were travelling fast. It was not difficult to guess what had happened. The gang had reached the launch and had seen what had happened to it. Learning from the Negro of his visit, they were now in pursuit, probably hoping to overtake him before he could get back to the cabin, to which they would assume he would return.
Handicapped by the burden of his sack, no light weight, yet loth to abandon it or even lose sight of it, but realizing he was likely to be overtaken, he again sought refuge under the gloomy trees that crowded on the inland side of the cliff. There, sheltered by the leafy screen provided by the drooping, moisture-laden branches, he sat to watch events.
Presently a little procession of three men emerged from the fog to hasten past. It comprised Raulstein and the two Americans. They had their guns in their hands, and from the expressions on their faces they were in an ugly mood. Bertie knew why. But where they were going in such a hurry he could only guess. He began to wonder if burning the launch had been a wise move. However, nothing could be done about that now. What worried him even more was fear of what might have happened to Tommy. Neither he nor the Negro had been in the pursuing party. What had they done with him? Raulstein would not stop short of another murder if it suited him. It was a nasty thought.
Picking up his sack Bertie moved on, slowly now and with the extreme caution called for by the circumstances. Somewhere in front of him was the enemy. Of that there could be no doubt, or he must have encountered them, except in the unlikely event of their having gone into the forest; and he could think of no reason why they should do that. The fog, while not as dense as it had been, still hung over the island like a canopy, making aviation impossible; so Raulstein would not have gone to the landing ground, should he know anything about the helicopter and have an idea of intercepting it.
Where had he been making for? Bertie could only guess. There appeared to be only two possibilities. The cabin, or possibly the landslide, to renew the search for the canvas bag and the treasure it contained. The tools carried by the Negro must have been left there, or somewhere handy, for they
had not been with the party on its return to the launch.
Still exercising his brain in an effort to weigh up the situation, Bertie continued to advance until he was within a hundred yards of the cabin. A new thought occurred to him. His entry into the cabin, should the gang be there, would be the signal for a show-down. He had no intention of leaving Biggles to face three angry conspirators, perhaps single-handed. In an affray, the sack of provisions would be in the way. A nuisance. If things went badly he might have to abandon it, and having been to so much trouble to get it he hated the thought of losing it. The food was badly needed, and with the launch gone there was no possibility of getting more.
He decided something would have to be done about this.
A solution was not hard to find. Obviously the thing was to put it somewhere out of the way yet recoverable when the fuss was over. Moving a little way into the trees, he dragged a hole with the side of his shoe in the thick soft layer of dead pine needles. Into the cavity he dropped the sack, covered it, and topped up the little heap with some clumps of moss to make the hump look natural.
This problem solved, he was about to move on when he was startled by a low hiss as if someone was blowing through his teeth. He could see no one. His first thought, of course, was that it might be Ginger, who had left the cabin as he had suggested to watch the landing ground. Taking no chances he backed a pace, feeling for his gun should it be needed. A rustle in some bushes close in front of him took his eyes to the spot. The bushes shook. They parted. A man emerged. It was not Ginger. He didn’t know who it was. It was a man, a tall, gaunt, haggard, bearded creature he had never seen before. A dirty, blood-stained rag, hung over his forehead. In filthy ragged clothes he might have been the lowest kind of tramp.
The scarecrow laid a finger on his lips. ‘Don’t shoot,’ he said tersely. ‘You must be Ginger’s pal, Bertie.’ He came forward.
‘And who the devil are you?’ demanded Bertie. ‘What do you know about Ginger? Where is he?’
‘Watching the cabin,’ was the answer. ‘He asked me to wait here for you and stop you if I saw you.’
CHAPTER 12
BIGGLES FACES THE MUSIC
ON Bertie’s departure from the cabin, closing the door softly behind him, Biggles and Ginger had sat silent, tense, expectant, prepared for the gunshot that would announce Raulstein’s threat had not been an idle one, and that someone had been left on guard. No shot came. No sound at all. When the silence had lasted for perhaps two minutes Ginger relaxed.
‘He’s done it,’ he said softly. ‘He’s got clear.’
Biggles nodded. ‘So it seems. He was right. Raulstein tried a bluff to keep us shut up here without splitting his party. What good Bertie hopes to do in this diabolic fog I can’t imagine. We shall see.’
No more was said. Time passed; an hour or more. No sound came from outside. Once in a while Ginger got up and, going quietly to the door, opened it a few inches to examine the weather. On the last of these occasions he said he thought the fog was beginning to lift a little.
‘I can’t see what good it’ll do us,’ returned Biggles. ‘We can’t leave here even if we had a reason. We shall have to wait for Bertie to come back. Whatever he gets up to he’s bound to return here when he’s finished, and if he found no one here he wouldn’t know what to do.’
‘We could leave a written message saying what we were doing.’
‘How could we do that without a clue as to what we intended to do? Once outside anything could happen. Besides, Raulstein might come back. He’d find the message. It would be daft to tell him what we were going to do — or try to do — even if we knew ourselves. No, that doesn’t sound a good idea to me.’
More time passed. Again Ginger inspected the weather. ‘The fog is definitely thinner than it was,’ he reported. ‘I can’t see why we should both stay here.’
‘And I can’t see what good we could do if we went out.’
‘I was thinking of what Bertie said about me going to the landing ground. The fog might lift as suddenly as it came down. If it did Fraser would certainly whistle over. Unless he was warned of what was going on here, he might bump into Raulstein and get the worst of the argument. Worse still, Raulstein might find the chopper with no one in it and decide to put it out of action. He’d hear it come over. If he sabotaged it we should all be up the creek without a paddle.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ inquired Biggles.
‘I’m pretty sure I could find the landing ground. It seems to me that it would be a good idea if I went along to be on the spot should Fraser slip over. If he didn’t show up I could always come back here and no harm would be done. It’ll be getting dark in a couple of hours anyway.’
‘All right, if that’s how you feel,’ consented Biggles. ‘I don’t see what harm you could do as long as you don’t get lost. But be careful what you get up to. For goodness’ sake keep well clear of Raulstein. If you bumped into him alone you wouldn’t have a hope.’
‘I’ll watch that doesn’t happen, you may be sure,’ declared Ginger.
‘I shall stay here.’
‘Okay. See you later. Fog or no fog, I shall come back as soon as it starts to get dark. Fraser’s not likely to do any night-flying in this sort of country.’
Ginger went to the door, opened it a few inches, looked, listened, and went out, closing it quietly behind him.
Biggles, left alone, sat still for some time, brooding over the situation. Only once did he move and that was to stoke up the fire to make the place seem a little more cheerful. He was not happy about the way the case had developed. In fact he was depressed, feeling that he had handled things badly, chiefly by failing to make allowances for the possible return of Raulstein to the island. That was not entirely unexpected; what was outside his calculations was that he might turn up supported by two armed thugs, professional gunmen, for that obviously was what the Americans were.
He was not particularly worried about Bertie, although he had been away a long time; or Ginger, for that matter. They should be able to take care of themselves. But with wretched Tommy it was a different matter; he was in the hands of men who might murder him, and would, without hesitation, if it suited their purpose. He was beginning to regret, and reproach himself, for letting him go without making a more determined effort to keep him; but at the time it seemed the only thing to do.
So Biggles sat, pondering, until the square patch of light from the only window in the cabin began to dim, indicating the approach of nightfall. He was still not worried about the others, but he was getting a little concerned, even anxious. They should, he thought, be back by now.
For a moment a clatter of empty cans outside suggested that one of them had arrived; but he did not entertain the thought because he could not imagine either Bertie or Ginger being so careless as to make such a noise — unless there was an urgent need for haste. He was prepared for bad news, but not for what happened next.
The door was burst open and Raulstein, gun in hand, crashed into the room, the two Americans on his heels. ‘Where is he?’ he snarled, glaring at Biggles.
Biggles did not move. ‘Are you looking for somebody?’ he asked evenly.
‘We want that daft-looking Limey with a window in his face,’ rapped out one of the Americans, the one who wore the yachting cap.
‘Oh! What’s he done?’ inquired Biggles, casually.
‘Done! He’s set fire to my boat, blast his eyes.’
Not without difficulty Biggles restrained a smile. Apparently Bertie had been busy. ‘What boat?’ he asked innocently. ‘I didn’t know you had a boat.’
‘How the hell do you think we got here?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’m not clairvoyant.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He isn’t here. I’d have thought you could have seen that for yourself. There isn’t much room for anyone to hide, is there?’
The three men looked at each other, nonplussed, possibly taken aback by Biggles’ attitude of unc
oncern.
‘In the meantime, what have you done with young Tommy?’ went on Biggles calmly, not seriously expecting an answer.
‘He’s all right,’ growled Raulstein, whatever that may have meant.
‘I hope for your sake he is,’ stated Biggles, with an edge on his voice.
‘Don’t you tell me what I can do,’ flared Raulstein.
‘You might put the wood in the hole to keep the fog where it belongs,’ suggested Biggles.
Raulstein slammed the door, which had been left open.
‘Thank you,’ acknowledged Biggles, with exaggerated courtesy. ‘Now, what were you saying?’
‘Who does this guy think he is?’ rasped the American who had previously spoken. ‘What’s going to happen about my boat?’
‘I’m afraid that’s your affair,’ returned Biggles, unruffled. ‘It looks as if you’ll have to get another, doesn’t it?’
‘Like hell it does! Are you going to pay for it?’
‘I most certainly am not. I don’t carry that sort of money, anyway. Whether you know it or not, this island is private property and you’ve no right to be here.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ sneered Raulstein.
‘You won’t have much say in the matter when the Canadian police get here,’ promised Biggles. ‘And if that’s all you have to say,’ he added, ‘you might find yourselves another lodging.’
‘Are you telling us where we can go?’
‘No, because, frankly, I wouldn’t know where to suggest. I’m merely giving you a spot of advice, which is to get weaving while the going’s good. Apart from that I don’t like you, and I find this conversation tiresome.’
The other American spoke. ‘How do we get anywhere without a boat?’