We followed, and nothing more was said for some minutes, when we got our second shock. We came upon a ,great pile of shells—snail shells. The heap was fully fifty feet high, and ran like a ridge for a hundred yards or more. It must have taken millions and millions of snails to make that stupendous pile.
Biggles turned to Donald. "What do you make of that, Doctor ? " he questioned. "I must admit that it's got me guessing."
" Ah, says Donald, smiling, "this is where two heads are better than one. I think I know the answer to this puzzle. This is the refuse heap of a tribe of troglodytes. I once saw the same sort of thing, farther north. No doubt the entrances to the burrows will be higher up
; the people simply throw all their rubbish out of the front door." It was then that he told us what I have already told you about troglodytes generally.
When he had finished we all looked up, and it's a good thing we did, for on the way down was a volley of rocks. We dived for cover, and the rocks hit the ground with a thud.
"They don't like us, evidently," remarked Biggles. Turning to the doctor he asked, Is there any reason for alarm—I mean, are these people likely to attack us ? "
Donald thought for a moment. "I don't think so," he decided. "They resent interference, but if we could
make contact with them we should be able to convince them that we mean no harm. But let us for the moment continue following the hoof marks. Perhaps the troglodytes will leave us alone if we ignore them."
We took his advice and went on, keeping a watchful eye on the ledges above us. Once or twice I thought I saw little brown faces looking down at us, but I wasn't sure, because it often happened that the sandstone had been worn into grotesgue shapes, resembling human beings, animals and reptiles. As it turned out we hadn't much farther to go.
Rounding a bend, what should we come upon but a big cave, not very high but thirty or forty feet across the entrance. Into the yawning mouth of this cavern the trail led.
"Well," observed Biggles' "this looks like the stable. Frankly, I don't think much of it."
"Nonsense," answered Donald. "Having come so far I'm not going to turn back now."
Biggles shrugged his shoulders. "As you like," he said. It's your party."
So we all trooped in. Donald switched on his torch, and we found ourselves in a much bigger place than we had supposed. The floor was level sand, but the top towered up like the roof of a cathedral. There was nothing to see except the hoof-prints, and there wasn't a sound. We continued to follow the trail, which presently turned into a side entrance leading to another enormous cavity.
Suddenly Biggles stopped. "Just a minute," he said. "What's that ahead ? "
We all pulled up, staring. There was something there, but it was hard to see what it was.
Very slowly we went on a few paces, and then I heard Algy gasp. I probably gasped too, for facing us was a sight that would make your blood run cold.
Sitting, or rather squatting, in a vast semicircle, were lots of little men, row after row of them all in the same position. It was rather like looking at the auditorium of a theatre from the stage. Not one of them moved. They just sat staring at us, and we at them.
Donald, who didn't lack courage, went on slowly, and we followed, although my inclination was to bolt.
As we drew close it was possible to make out that they weren't men at all, but statues, all looking as though they had been cut out of jade. There they sat, with their hands and feet tied together, their chins on their knees. Donald reached forward and touched one. "
Remarkable," he said.
"You mean the carving, Doctor ? " suggested Algy.
Donald chuckled. " Carving ? These are not carvings, my boy. They're petrified corpses, human beings that have been placed in, or under, some petrifying liquid. You can see the same sort of thing in limestone caves in England, although there the deposit is grey. Here it is green. Yes," he went on, pointing, " there's the spot where the liquid seeps through the roof. And that's the place, unless my eyes deceive me, where the hoof-marks end."
"Then that explains the mystery of the green horse," put in Biggles, rather sharply. "The animal was made to stand there—alive—so that it could be petrified ; but after getting a coating of the green dye it managed to break loose and escape."
"That, undoubtedly, is the answer," agreed Donald.
I thought it was time to give my opinion. "What about getting out of here? " I suggested.
" It strikes me that if we stay we may find ourselves under that green shower-bath.
"Ginger's right," said Biggles quickly. "Those troglodytes must be responsible for this. I fancy we've struck their cemetery. This cave is no place to be caught in. Let's get out."
I think we all suddenly realized our danger, and no one stopped to argue—not even Donald. We turned round, and we were only just in time. Creeping towards us as silently as ghosts, with stone hatchets in their hands, were the most dreadful-looking people I have ever seen in my life. They were small, without hair or eyebrows, and as far as I could see, without teeth. Their little pink tongues kept flicking over their lips as if in anticipation
of a tasty meal. Had they rushed us at that moment I hate to think what might have happened. As it was, as soon as they realized that we'd seen them, they stopped, and there we all stood, they staring at us and we stanng at them.
"Keep your heads," said Biggles, quickly. "If we do the wrong thing there's going to be a mess. We must avoid hostilities if we can. I fancy they're as jumpy as we are; they don't know whether to come on or go back. It's touch and go either way."
An idea struck me. "I wonder if they've ever heard a mouth-organ," I said.
" What ! " exclaimed Biggles. "Have you got one?"
I told him that I had. As a matter of fact I had bought a beauty in Algiers on our way over. I had really bought it for a souvenir, because it was decorated with Arab writing. It was still in my pocket.
"Try a note or two," suggested Biggles. "It can't do any harm."
Very slowly I took the mouth-organ from my pocket and put it to my lips. Then I blew—
hard. In that clammy silence the result even startled me, so I don't wonder that the poor little trogs were scared. Did they run? They let out one scream of terror and made a wild scramble for the exit. So did we. I kept close behind them, blowing up and down the scale for all I was worth. Once in the main cave the trogs didn't run into the open; they disappeared like a swarm of big black beetles into a narrow fissure which presumably led to their dwellings higher up. Needless to say, we didn't follow them, but shot out into the open. Fresh air has never seemed so sweet to me, nor has the sky ever looked so blue.
Even then the danger wasn't over, for all the way back along the canyon rocks kept rolling down, and we could see the little blighters keeping pace with us along the ledges.
But when we got to the aircraft and switched on the engine, that did it. You couldn't see the trogs for dust. All the same, we didn't sit around. This, clearly: was no place for a picnic, and we were all glad to be out of it—particularly as the mystery of the green horse had been solved. What happened to it we never learned, but either the poor beast attached itself to a caravan or died of thirst in the desert. The Arab who said that the horse had chased him was wrong, of course. The unfortunate animal, being domesticated, was probably pining for human society. But that's just surmise. In a few minutes we were in the air, heading north for civilization.
Ginger stood up. "Well," he said, "that was my one and only experience with troglodytes, and I hope it will be the last. If living underground makes people look like those poor little blighters looked, it will take more than air raids to turn me into a human rabbit. But here's Biggles; let's go in to dinner."
XVI
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SILENT DEATH
" ANY news? " Flying-Officer Henry Harcourt put the question to Ginger, who was leaning against the fireplace in the officers' mess reading the evening paper.
Ginger folded th
e news-sheet and tossed it on to the table. "Nothing to shout about," he answered. "The abominable Dr. Goebbels is bragging that Germany has a secret weapon.
"
" Bosh ! " sneered Henry, and sundry other noises from different parts of the room indicated what the members of Biggles's Squadron thought about the Nazi boast.
Ginger looked round with an expression of mild reproach. "Why these vulgar expressions of contempt ? " he queried. "Is there any reason why Hitler shouldn't have a secret weapon? After all, you may be pretty sure that we've got one or two surprises up our own sleeves."
"I'll believe in a secret weapon when I see it," grunted Tug Carrington.
"By that time it may be too late for you to do anything about it," remarked Ginger. "In any case, by the time you know about it it will no longer be a secret weapon. This has been a war of secret weapons, and more, no doubt, are on the way. If I know anything about history, there always have been secret weapons. The German magnetic mine was a secret weapon. Our radio-location was a secret weapon. Why, even animals and insects know the value of a secret weapon."
"Here, just a minute, young fellow-me-lad," put in Lord Bertie Lissie. "You aren't by any chance suggesting that jolly old gnats and things sit down and work out new ideas ? "
"Well, I'll admit I didn't exactly mean that, but I don't see why not," returned Ginger slowly. " Scores of animals, birds, fish and insects, have what must have been originally a secret weapon. A snake injects poison, the skunk squirts stinking stuff, the armadillo is really a living tank. All of them must at some time have taken other creatures by surprise."
"But all these things are known now; they're no longer secrets," argued Henry. "Animals are no longer capable of developing secret weapons. Only men can do that now."
"I call that a bold statement," declared Ginger. "How do you know what wild creatures are doing? Are you in a position to assert that there is not, in some tropical jungle, even at this moment, a creature that is slowly but surely developing some deadly weapon?"
"No, I'm not," confessed Henry.
"I should jolly well say not," replied Ginger. "Had you done so I would soon have squashed your argument, for, as it happens, there is ample proof that it is not beyond the _power of wild things to produce lethal weapons. I know it to my cost."
"What did it cost you ? " inquired Bertie.
"It jolly nearly cost me my life." Ginger jerked his thumb in the direction of Algy Lacey.
" If you don't believe me, you ask Al5y. As a matter of detail, the Silent Death, as the thing was called, put our friend, Dr. Duck, in hospital for two months, and, incidentally, put an end to our biological cruise. For some time it was touch and go with him."
"The Silent Death?" whispered Henry. "That sounds terrific."
"It was terrific," agreed Ginger. "Even now I can't think about it without a shudder."
"Say, come on, what are you waiting for ? " put in Tex O'Hara. "You know you'll have to tell us the story, so why not begin?"
Ginger laughed.
All right," he agreed, "I hope
you'll find it interesting. We did." And this is the story he told : Just before war became pretty well certain, strange events were happening on the West Indian Island of Hispaniola—that 'Dart known as the Dominican Republic. With war-scare headlines filling the front pages of the newspapers on this side of the Atlantic, it is likely that these events passed almost unnoticed in Europe. Even those people who noted the little paragraphs concerning the Silent Terror—as the thing was first called—were more concerned about what was happening on their doorsteps, than the death of a few poor ignorant negroes in a distant tropical island. They certainly did not realize that the world was facing an even greater peril than that unleashed by the Nazis. We—that is, Biggles, Algy, Dr. Duck and myself—didn't realize it, even when we were on the spot.
What might have happened dawned upon us only after the Silent Terror had been silenced for good. But let me take the events in their correct sequence.
We had returned from Africa with Dr. Duck to enable him to attend an important scientific meeting in London. We had nothing definite in view, and it seemed likely that we should be at home for some weeks—in fact, until Donald decided to make another trip. This came sooner than we expected. One evening he turned up at Biggles's rooms and arranged on the table a number of newspaper clippings cut from American and West Indian newspapers. These clippings, which referred to incidents spread over several months, all started off by telling the same story. In a certain district of Dominica cattle had been found dead in mysterious circumstances. There is nothing new in cattle dying in mysterious circumstances ; cattle die from all sorts of diseases; but the remarkable—not to say horrible—thing about these poor beasts was that after death their bodies were found to be entirely drained of blood. This ghastly business always took place at night.
The first obvious answer to this sinister mystery was that the animals had fallen victim to the notorious blood-sucking vampire bats that are common in the West Indies and Central America. But the vampire bat doesn't kill. It takes a meal from the victim, animal or human being, without awakening him. Cattle, goats and even humans are subject all their lives to attack; by these pests, apparently without ill effect, although too much of it certainly weakens the victims. In short, the thing is so common that it is accepted as a matter of course, as we take wasp-stings in this country.
The next point is, the vampire doesn't drain its victim. Obviously, it would be impossible for a creature the size of a vampire bat, which is only about four inches long, to consume the entire contents of an animal the size of a cow. Nor could it be a question of attack by a swarm of vampire bats, because they operate singly. What creature, then, had done the mischief? Nobody knew, but the natives, in their superstitious terror, ascribed the Silent Death to supernatural causes. Time went on, and things got worse instead of better. More and more cattle died, and it was clear that if the plague persisted it was only a question of time before the island was completely denuded of cattle, in which case the natives would be faced with starvation. Moreover, the plague might spread to other islands, for already the outlying farms were affected.
The thing came to a head when first one native, then two or three, died in the same mysterious circumstances as had the cattle. They were also struck down during the hours of darkness. Stark terror descended on the island. People went mad trying to keep awake.
No one went to work. The sugar plantations were abandoned, and all the time no one had the remotest idea of what was doing the damage. Such was the state of affairs when Dr. Duck decided to take a hand. We were soon on the spot, and as we were now faced with a first class mystery, we were all agog to solve it. We started by hiring a house, a flimsy native affair, from a negro, to serve as our headquarters. Of course, we had no doubt that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation of the revolting business.
We got a shock, though, when, having parked the Wanderer in a lagoon, we went on mule back to the centre of the stricken district. The first white investigator, an American newspaper reporter, had been killed the previous night. He was a tough fellow, and like most Americans, full of confidence. Armed with a shotgun and a torch, he had gone out, laughing, to settle the matter. When day dawned his corpse was found stretched out on a bank, just as if he had dropped off to sleep. I need hardly say that this put a different complexion on the whole thing. It's one matter for a poor ignorant negro to lose his life, but a white man, armed into the bargain, was a horse of a different colour.
"I'm not usually an alarmist," remarked Biggles, quietly, as we discussed the situation, "
but this isn't a job to be tackled lightly. That American journalist was no fool. There's nothing to prevent us from making the same mistake. We shall have to be careful."
Now the spot where the American had lost his life turned out to be the very place where the first cattle had been killed. The owner of the farm—a mere clearing in the forest—
had
also fallen victim shortly afterwards, and no doubt this was the reason why the American had chosen the spot. There was reason to suppose that the creature—if creature it was—had its lair near that place. One significant point must be mentioned.
Since the
Silent Death had struck at human beings it had no longer molested cattle, and this fact suggested that it had acquired a taste for human blood. This in itself was a remarkable thing, as Donald pointed out, because creatures of the wild rarely change their taste from choice. It is well known that a lion or a tiger will switch over from cattle to human beings, when they're known as man-eaters ; but this isn't altogether a matter of choice; they only do that when they begin to get old and lose their teeth, when they no longer have the strength to pull down a buffalo.
Briefly, our plan was this, and it was based on the fact that there were several of us together, whereas the American had been alone. We should afford each other mutual protection. We decided to go to the place, a sort of dell, where the American had lost his life. Donald would sit in the open, offering himself as a bait. We would sit around, close at hand but out of sight, and watch. Biggles was all against this, but Donald, pointing out that he was the scientist of the expedition, insisted; and when he makes up his mind there's no shaking him. We were to sit on the fringe of the jungle a few yards away, not together, but a short distance apart, the idea being that we should be able to watch Donald from different angles. But we were taking no chances. Having no idea of how the Silent Death struck its victim, Biggles insisted that ever?: fifteen minutes he would say, quietly but distinctly, All's well ". This was to be echoed by every one of us in turn. In this way we should be able to keep a check on each other without moving. If anyone should see anything suspicious, or feel himself being attacked, he would, naturally, give the alarm.
For weapons we chose shotguns instead of rifles firing a single bullet; they would give us a much better chance of hitting the mark in the dark. We also carried hunting knives.
27 Biggles - Charter Pilot Page 15