Algy straightened his back stiffly. "Where does it all come from anyway? I didn't know there was so much sand in the world," he observed, gloomily.
A glance around the scene of their labours revealed the truth of Biggles's words. For two hours they had
shovelled sand madly aside, without pause and with hardly a word, but the only visible result was four great holes exposing still more sand. The ribs around which they had been working showed a little more of their length, that was all.
"Let's knock off for a bit," he suggested. "The stuff's been here for five hundred years, so another minute or two shouldn't hurt it."
They returned to the machine, unpacked some provisions, and with difficulty persuaded their passenger to desist and join them in a frugal meal. A few minutes later they resumed their task, digging feverishly into the yielding but heavy sand. By sunset the holes were appreciably deeper, but there was still no sign of anything but sand.
"Hullo! What's this?" Algy bent forward and eagerly picked up a small, roughly-round object that lay at his feet. The others were around him instantly, examining the find with intense interest.
Algy rubbed the disc vigorously on the seat of his trousers and then held it up again for inspection. It was undoubtedly a coin of some sort, and an inscription was faintly legible.
"Phillipofour, one-six-two-one," he read slowly, and turned it over. Amongst a mass of hieroglyphics two castles could be distinguished. "What the dickens is it?" he asked.
"Piece of eight; eight reales—a silver coin minted in Peru in sixteen twenty-one,"
explained the passenger blandly.
"You seem to know all about it," said Biggles, quickly.
"I have seen them before."
"Well, let's find some more; silver is better than nothing," observed the pilot, picking up his spade.
But the sun dropped over the horizon with tropical suddenness and they had no choice but to return to the "Vandal" to make preparations for the night. A faint hum, slowly increasing in volume, became audible in the still air.
"Here come the enemy," said Biggles dryly.
"Enemy! Where?" The passenger sprang to his feet in alarm and stared out over the sea.
"Are you expecting them to come that way?" asked the pilot evenly. "I was talking about mosquitoes," he added. "We'd better oil ourselves or we shall be torn to pieces."
TV
Biggles, dreaming that he had been seized by an alligator, sat bolt upright under the wing of the machine where he had made his bed, and gazed stupidly at a circle of hostile faces glaring at him. He yawned, shifted his gaze to where the rising sun had turned the sheltered stretch of water into a pool of carmine and gold, and smiled grimly as his eyes fell on a yacht standing close in to the shore. He recognized it for the one he had last seen in the harbour at Georgetown. A dinghy was drawn up on the beach.
"So here you are," he smiled.
"Quit grinning and get on your feet," snarled a man in sailor's uniform, evidently the leader of the shore party.
Algy lazily opened one eye and then sat bolt upright as if he had been stung by a scorpion. "Good heavens!" he gasped. "What's all this?"
"Come on, step out, baby," snapped the man in uniform, drawing an automatic.
"You'll hurt yourself with that thing one of these days," observed Biggles seriously, as he rolled out from under the wing-tip and stood up, yawning. "What a lovely day."
What followed happened so quickly that even Algy, who was prepared for something of the sort, could hardly believe it. Biggles's right hand shot out and slashed a handful of sand straight into the man's eyes. He leapt sideways like a cat as the automatic exploded, and then forward; his left hand took the man in the pit of the stomach, and as he doubled up with a gasping groan Biggles, the automatic in his hand, swung up to face the rest just as they started forward. They stopped dead as they saw the squat muzzle covering them.
"Well, and now what is it all about?" he asked coldly. "Have you bought this place or—?"
His voice died in his throat as, glancing to one side, his eyes fell on a vision of blonde loveliness standing beside an elderly man in white ducks.
"I beg your pardon, madam," he went on when he had recovered from his surprise, "for this unseemly bickering; I had no idea—" He tossed the weapon carelessly into the undergrowth and turned to the man beside the girl. "Having disturbed my party, sir, may I suggest that you introduce yourself and state your business in a manner less suggestive of the methods employed by
the gentlemen who once frequented this coast," he concluded icily.
"My name is Hollinger, Cyrus P. Hollinger, of Tonville, Illinois, U.S.A.," replied the man, looking rather uncomfortable.
"Mine's Bigglesworth—James C. Bigglesworth, of nowhere in particular," replied Biggles lightly. "Meet my young and irresponsible friend, the Honourable Algernon Montgomery Lacey, of Merioneth Towers, Merioneth, Merionethshire; if you don't believe it you can ask him yourself. Algy, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Hollinger and—may I presume?—thank you—Miss Hollinger. I fear I cannot offer you much in the way of hospitality," he went on, "but we have some good coffee."
"That's fine," broke in Mr. Hollinger, "but where is that rascally steward of mine?"
"Steward, was he?" nodded Biggles. "To tell you the truth, I don't know where he is. He went off to sleep by himself, but I fancy he must have seen you coming."
Mr. Hollinger dismissed his crew, and over an excellent breakfast on the beach, supplied by the ship's galley, the story soon unfolded itself.
"He must have overheard me discussing the wreck with my daughter," exclaimed Mr.
Hollinger, "and the sight of your aircraft gave him the idea of slipping along first—and he might have got away with it, too, had there been anything to take."
"But isn't there some gold here?" asked Biggles quickly.
"There should be, but I've made a hobby of hunting these things out all my life and I've never found any yet."
"Do you mean to say I've shifted all that sand for nothing?" cried Algy, aghast.
"I shouldn't be surprised," laughed the American. "By the way, what are you boys doing with an airplane in this out-of-the-way part of the world?"
Briefly, Biggles explained what had happened, and the old man listened in amazement to his story, laughing loudly at Algy's interpolated comments on the character of the Oil Investment Company of British Guiana.
"Well, it was a blow to lose our pay," Biggles concluded, "but it's some satisfaction to know that we've done the Company out of the machine."
Mr. Hollinger laughed, it seemed to Biggles immoderately, at the story of how it had been obtained. "Well, let's go and see if there's anything worth salving in the wreck,"
exclaimed the American at last, rising.
Many hands soon made light work of the operations, and by evening the skeleton of the once proud ship lay stark and gaunt on the beach. They found nothing, not a coin or a relic of any description. Algy's piece of eight was the sum total of the proceeds.
"My word, I'm glad you turned up," breathed Algy fervently to Isobel Hollinger, as he looked at the huge excavation. "If I'd done that and got nothing at the end of it I should have crawled away and given myself up to the alligators."
"Yes, it is disappointing," admitted Mr. Hollinger, "particularly as by coming here I have missed the chance
of a big deal. I should have been in Peru by the twentieth and it's the fifteenth now. Can't be done."
"Where do you want to go?" asked Biggles suddenly. "Lima."
"Lima! Speaking from memory, that is a fair step
from here, but it might be done," said Biggles. "Impossible ! My yacht only steams at twenty knots." "What about that?" Biggles pointed to the "Vandal". "Say! I never thought of it," muttered Mr. Hollinger.
"I wonder how far it is?"
"I'm not thinking so much of the distance as of the difficulty of getting fuel on the way,"
said Biggles, as they made their way
to the dinghy in order to examine the map in the chart-room of Hollinger's yacht, the Sea Dream. "We've an endurance range of about seven hundred miles, and we could carry some spare fuel with us. We can follow the Pan American route via Port of Spain, Maracaibo, and Panama, and then down the other side via Buenaventura, I believe it goes. It's about three thousand five hundred miles, for a rough guess, and, bar 'accidents, we could do it if we started at dawn tomorrow."
"I'll risk it; the yacht can follow on!" cried the (American enthusiastically. "I'll pay expenses and a thousand dollars if you get me through."
"Good!" cried Biggles delightedly. "Come on, Algy, let's run over the machine and slip down to Georgetown for a full load of fuel."
Just before noon, four days later, the "Vandal" touched its wheels lightly on Las Palmas aerodrome at Barranco, near Lima.
"Well, you boys, I'm very much obliged to you," smiled Mr. Hollinger as he climbed out of the machine and handed Biggles an envelope. "Here are the dollars I promised you, and the pay-cheques you failed to receive from the Oil Company."
"Pay-cheques !" exclaimed Biggles in surprise. "What's that got to do with you?"
"I'm the managing director," grinned Hollinger, backing away. "I suspected our Agent in Georgetown was crooked, so I ran down to see. That's really why I was there. See you later!"
CHAPTER 2
THE MAID AND THE MOUNTAINS,
BIGGLES leaned back in his chair on the patio of the Hotel Guibert, in La Paz, and watched with interest a line of grunting llamas toiling across the cobbled plaza. A mule, followed by an arriero and a string of curses, which sounded to Biggles adequate, even though their meaning was quite beyond him, threaded its way in the opposite direction.
Its load was continually shifting, and constant stops had to be made to re-hitch.
"I'm glad that chap isn't my rigger," he observed, moodily, as the arriero halted the beast for the third time within ten yards.
The scene had become familiar, for more than a month had elapsed since they had landed on the Pacific side of the South American continent. For a fortnight they had flown Mr.
Hollinger to various points of the compass on business before he departed, profuse in thanks, to the Sea Dream, which was lying at anchor off Pisco.
Biggles, remembering that Wilkinson, once "Wilks" of 287 Squadron, R.A.F., was now pilot-instructor to the Bolivian Air Force, would not hear of returning to Europe without looking him up, so after the necessary
formalities had been arranged by the British Consular Agent they had flown the "Vandal"
across the frontier to the Bolivian Air Force aerodrome at Alto de la Paz, to the great delight of Wilks. They had taken up quarters at the Guibert, where they foregathered each evening to discuss past exploits and future prospects.
"How are you getting on with your Spanish?" asked Wilkinson, with a wink at Algy.
"Muy bien, gracias amigo," grinned Biggles, for he had been amusing himself by learning the language of the country. "I got on very well in the market this morning; I bought a poncho* for a souvenir. By the way, what is all this talk I hear about a fellow named Estaban? I couldn't quite get the hang of it, and when I asked people they just shut up like oysters."
"Good heavens, man, don't tell me that you haven't heard that Estaban Martinez has kidnapped the President's daughter?"
"What's she like?" asked Algy, sitting up and taking interest in the conversation.
"Consuelo Guardia has the reputation of being the most beautiful girl in Spanish America," replied Wilkinson respectfully, "in fact, she's a wizard," he added fervently, with a disregard for niceties.
"Great Scott! Why hasn't somebody fetched her back? Come on; let's go," cried Algy, rising.
"Don't be a fool—sit down," Wilkinson told him quickly, dropping his voice and glancing around. "You'll
get a knife in your back if you go around shouting like that."
"Tell me about it," pleaded Algy, earnestly.
"Estaban is one big brigand chief," whispered Wilkinson, "and then some. He looks like a comic-opera star turn, but that's where the funny stuff ends; there's nothing humorous in Estaban's make-up, believe me."
"Where does he hang out?" inquired Biggles.
"That doesn't help," replied Wilkinson, shaking his head. "They know pretty well where his headquarters are. Look; you see the mountain over there?" He nodded towards a gigantic white peak in the distance. "That's Mount Illimani—the Great Mother, it means, and it's venerated by every Indian in Bolivia. Well, his place is somewhere behind there, but don't forget those mountains roll back for about three hundred miles until they fall down in the Amazon valley. Estaban rules the district like a prince by collecting toll and ransom from travellers who have to go through the apacheta to the altiplanicia, that is, through the pass to the high sierras beyond; there are several mines up there, mostly tin."
"Why don't they send troops to turf him out of it?" asked Biggles, in puzzled surprise.
"Can't be done," said Wilkinson, shaking his head. "The British army could lose itself in those mountains and it would take another army months to find them. You can't cross those hills without a train of llamas or mules, and Estaban would know you were on your way before you left the town. La Paz is alive with spies. The fellow has been a curse for years, but he has never tried anything
on this scale before. Poor old Don Jaime, the President, is nearly off his head; he worships the girl. Estaban is asking for a ransom of two hundred and fifty thousand bolivianos and Don Jaime says he hasn't got it; I don't suppose he has—he hasn't been in office long enough. He's offered a reward of ten thousand bolivianos for the girl, and the Government has offered ten thousand for Estaban's body, dead or alive, but they are pretty safe; they might as well have offered a million, for all the chance they have of getting him. No one could get within ten miles of his estancia. They talk about getting up a public subscription."
"But they must have some idea, to within a mile or so, where Estaban hangs out,"
returned Biggles.
"Come up to the map-room at the aerodrome tomorrow and I'll show you to within two hundred square miles, and that's as much as anyone can tell you," replied Wilkinson, "but don't you try doing anything foolish," he muttered darkly. "An Aymara Indian couldn't get across those hills, so it's no use you trying."
Biggles nibbled the end of a match-stalk reflectively. "It seems a pity," he observed slowly.
II
The following morning he examined with interest the big map in the pilots' room at the aerodrome. A pencil line, drawn by Wilkinson, enclosed an oblong-shaped area roughly twenty miles long by ten miles deep.
"It's generally supposed that Estaban's estancia is somewhere about there, but, of course, no one knows for certain," he told them.
"I see," said Biggles vaguely. "Well, it looks rough country to me and I don't think I shall wear out any shoe-leather looking for Consuelo. Come on, Algy, we had, better run over the machine; she'll need an overhaul before we leave."
"Where's Smyth?" he went on, with a change of tone, when they were out of earshot.
"He's cleaning the machine. Why?"
"Good. Is the camera still aboard?"
"Yes.,,
"We still have plenty of unexposed plates, haven't we?" "Plenty."
"Fine! Let's do a little reconnaissance."
A few minutes later the "Vandal" was in the air, climbing as quickly as possible for height. Progress was slow, for the aerodrome at Alto de la Paz is situated fourteen thousand feet above sea-level, considerably higher than the normal ceiling of a civil aircraft. For this reason Smyth had been left behind in order to lighten the load as far as possible, and with Biggles at the controls Algy was ready to operate the camera.
When they were five thousand feet above the aerodrome the pilot struck off at a tangent and headed towards the snowy crest of Mount Illimani. As they neared it he edged away towards the lower peaks on the right, but even so he had not much more than a few hund
red feet to spare when he slipped across them and looked ahead for what lay beyond. Something struck the plane with the vibrating
crack of a whip-lash, and a small round hole appeared in the lower port plane. Biggles grimaced, and made a mental note that Wilkinson had evidently spoken the truth about Estaban's bodyguard of snipers.
Once over the main range the ground fell away in an awe-inspiring series of lesser ranges. As far as the eye could see, the landscape presented a vista of serrated ridges of rock, torn and split by the torture of innumerable earthquakes, and Biggles realised for the first time the difficulty of his task. Something caught his eye and he changed his course slightly towards it. It was a lake, one of those peculiar to the Andean range, situated thousands of feet above sea-level. It was near the end of a large plateau, bleak and stony and broken by occasional patches of tola scrub.
"What a place!" he mused. And then a movement attracted his attention and he peered down intently. Sheep? No, llamas, he thought, and stared at a group of animals grazing on the edge of the plateau near the entrance of a small ravine. He pointed, and signalled to Algy to start exposing plates.
For half an hour he flew up and down at the same altitude until every inch of the plateau, the lake, and their environs had been covered by the camera, and then he turned his nose back towards the aerodrome.
For the rest of the day they worked hard, Biggles and Smyth developing and printing the plates, Algy mounting them up together on a large white card. When he had finished, a single photograph was made of the whole and a bird's-eye picture of the valley lay before them.
"If he's in the area Wilks marked out, he is here," said Biggles, laying a finger on the photograph, after a minute examination. "A lizard couldn't find a foothold anywhere else.
Here is the pass." He traced a faint wavering line with the point of his pencil. "From the machine it seemed to lose itself on the plateau, but you can still faintly see it in the photograph. Here it goes, straight across. Now look over here in the corner; notice how all these small tracks converge on that point, and that is where the llamas were. The vertical photograph only shows rock and a tiny fissure, but I should say the rock overhangs a canyon, and that is where Estaban and his friends must hang out. Do you think you could land the 'Vandal' on that lake, Algy?" he concluded abruptly.
04 Biggles Flies Again Page 2