04 Biggles Flies Again

by Captain W E Johns

  The place was dead. Not a single speck of green caught' the eyes. The leafless trees were of a dull grey colour and stood stark and gaunt as if they had been struck by lightning.

  "The forest of death," remarked Algy humorously, but the joke seemed to fall flat.

  Biggles had noticed something else, and he looked around with a puzzled expression, as if he could not quite make out what it was. When Algy spoke he knew. It was the silence, dead, utter, and absolute—not the lesser noise of a remote rural scene in a civilized country, but an aching silence, a complete absence of sound that worried the eardrums and repelled intrusion. There was no movement; even the mosquitoes were absent. He looked at the bank; the earth was deep with black, rotting vegetation, and the stench of it enveloped them like a blanket.

  "I don't like the smell of this place," said Algy, with a change of tone. "Smells like something—can't make it out quite—" His voice echoed eerily and with startling clarity among the silent trees.

  The water around them was black and threw back the inverted reflection of the desolation on the bank with artificial intensity. For perhaps three minutes all four of them stood and stared at it.

  "Pah! Let's get out of this," said Algy suddenly. "The place reeks of—"

  "Of what?" said Smilee in a curious tone.

  "Of—of—of death," replied Algy in a queer voice. The words, which appeared to rise unbidden to his lips, seemed to startle him and he shivered suddenly. "Come on, Biggles,

  " he said again; "let's get out of this; there's something about it I don't like, something—unclean."

  "Dash it all, Algy, we'll get to the bottom of it now we've come so far," exclaimed Biggles irritably. "What ails the place, anyway?"

  Smilee jumped ashore and grabbed at a branch to steady himself. It collapsed. It did not snap or break, but seemed rather to crumble to pieces, like dust, covering him with a fine white powder. The dull noise of its fall had echoed to silence before anyone spoke.

  "That's odd," said the Professor, half to himself, "very odd. Ever see anything like that, Bigglesworth?" he added, turning to the pilot.

  Biggles and Algy joined him on the bank, leaving Smyth in charge of the machine.

  Algy picked up a stick of dead wood and crumbled it to

  dust between his fingers. "There's something wrong about this place," he said again.

  "What do you make of it?" asked the Professor in a low, strained voice, for the fall of the trees seemed to have damped his enthusiasm.

  "I don't know," answered Biggles. "There seems to be a kind of plague about. It's foul; you can smell it. I can smell something else, too—a sort of scent—get it in whiffs. Heck

  ! Smell that !"

  For a second the air was heavy with perfume, then suddenly it died away again. It was as if the door of a perfumer's had been flung open and then shut. The scent was gloriously, wonderfully fragrant, with a heavy, sickly, and almost overpowering "end" to it.

  "Come on!" cried the Professor. "Let's find out what it is," and he started off into the forest. He stopped and pointed at something on the ground. It was a skeleton, horribly human, about the size of a baby. "Monkey," he said laconically, and passed on.

  They had walked for perhaps five minutes, still getting occasional whiffs of the perfume, when Algy stopped and mopped his face with a handkerchief.

  Biggles looked back over his shoulder. "What's the matter?" he said. "You look ill."

  "I feel darn sick," answered Algy shortly.

  "Funny," said Biggles; "so do I. I believe this stink is getting in my stomach; it seems to be getting stronger, too."

  The Professor, who had gone on ahead, pulled up dead in his tracks and stood staring at something straight ahead.

  "Bigglesworth," he shouted, "hurry up—come and look at this!"

  Biggles caught up with him and stopped in turn, staring, his lips parted in surprise.

  Straight ahead was a belt of undergrowth; there was nothing surprising in that, but it was the colour that astonished him. It was of an inconceivably brilliant emerald-green, a poisonous green, so vivid that it seemed possible to reach out and touch it. It may have been that the colourless monotony around intensified it, but for the moment it held him spellbound.

  "Well, here it is, whatever it is," grunted the Professor, starting forward, and his shrill shout of delight brought Biggles forward at a run, only to pull up dead and gasp in wonderment.

  Inside the growth was a mass of orchids. He understood little of orchidaceae, but sufficient to know that nothing like it had ever been seen before. The actual flowers were more like cypripediums than any other, except that near the ground there were masses of pseudo-bulbs like those of the common ceologyne; but again it was the colour that shook him.

  They were blue. The under sepal was a deep, glowing royal blue, watered into a brilliant peacock-blue at the tip. Two orange spots, like eyes, were set at the base, and a long scarlet stigma completed the most devilishly beautiful thing that ever grew on earth.

  They were the size of dinner plates—and there were hundreds of them—thousands of them. They sprawled over the ground and piled up in great banks. They projected in long sprays from the trunks of the trees and hung in azure cascades from the branches over their heads. It may have been imagination, but it struck Biggles that all the flowers were facing his direction, as if they were looking at him. He glanced at Smilee.

  The Professor's face was as pale as death and his lips were twitching curiously. He reached out his hand and plucked one of the flowers, but a sharp "ugh!" broke from his lips as he did so and he dropped it with a violent shudder, as a child drops an insect placed unexpectedly in its hand.

  "It moved !" he gasped. "Bigglesworth, I swear it moved—look at it!" His voice rose to a shrill falsetto, and Biggles stared with loathing and horror at the thing at his feet, for it was twisting and turning like a piece of gelatine on a moist surface.

  Suddenly the air was filled with an overpowering flood of perfume, and Biggles staggered back with a hoarse cry, clutching at his throat, a grim suspicion forming in his mind.

  "Come on, Smilee!" he cried. "It's poison—run for it!"

  He saw the Professor turn to run, but his feet caught in a tangled heap of the bulbs, and he fell headlong amongst the flowers. He staggered to his feet, making queer choking noises and, clutching wildly at the air, plunged blindly into an alley that led into the very heart of the growth.

  "This way—" Biggles tried to shout, but the words were a croaking whisper. He felt his senses leaving him; the flowers spun dizzily before his eyes in a whirling band of blue.

  He could no longer see clearly, and turning, staggered, swaying from side to side, towards the lake. He

  clutched at a tree to save himself from falling, but it was as soft as cotton wool and came down with a "whoosh," smothering him with a cloud of rotting fibre. He rose, fighting to keep his reeling senses ... vaguely he heard a voice shouting .. .

  HI

  He opened his eyes drowsily as consciousness slowly returned, and for some minutes lay gazing unseeingly at a tangled confusion of branches passing in silent procession overhead. Presently he realized that his lips were dry and burning, that his head ached violently, and that he was going to be sick. With an effort he raised himself on to his elbow and looked blankly around him at his position.

  He was lying half inside the cabin of the "Vandal", which was drifting slowly with the current down a broad river. Recollection of what had happened came back to him with a rush, and he crawled with difficulty into the cabin. The first thing he saw was Algy's face, blue-lipped, and grey with the pallor of death, in the pilot's seat. Smyth, face downwards, was sprawled across him. At first he thought they were both dead, but a closer examination revealed that they were both still breathing faintly. Ripping off his jacket he trailed it in the water for a moment, and then entered the cabin and held it over them. With difficulty he hauled the unconscious form of Smyth off Algy, and contrived to get the oth
er into a sitting position in the seat.

  Algy opened his eyes slowly and stared at him. "Water !"

  he gasped, and Biggles wrung out the coat, allowing the drips to fall into the open mouth.

  Algy stirred and moved himself into a more comfortable position, still staring at his partner with wide-open eyes. "What was it?" he whispered.

  "Hang on, laddie," said Biggles. "Let me see to Smyth."

  In a few minutes he had brought him round, taxied to the bank, and moored the machine to a projecting root. He then made a pot of coffee, and the steaming liquid went far to restore them to normal, although they were all violently sick. Up to this time no one had mentioned the Professor.

  "Where did he go?" asked Algy quietly at last. Biggles shook his head. "Goodness knows," he said; "I don't. I don't even know how I got here."

  "Neither do I," replied Algy. "I saw you staggering about as if you were crazy, and then you fell down. I remember running up and starting to drag you towards the lake, and that'

  s all I know."

  "I saw you dragging him," broke in Smyth, "and then you fell down too. I was being as sick as a dog, but I managed to haul you both to the machine and get you aboard. I just remember dropping Mr. Lacey into the pilot's seat and cutting the mooring rope, and then I must have packed up, too."

  "Thanks, Smyth," said Biggles quietly. "We were both goners if you hadn't done that.

  Heck! That's how that collector—what was his name?—Hutson--went out. But the point is, where are we? We shall have to go back and look for the Professor."

  They started the engine and taxied back upstream.

  "The trouble is," said Biggles after a while, "we don't know how long we were unconscious, or which of these tributaries we came down. It might have been any one of those." He pointed to rivers on either bank which flowed into the main stream.

  By evening they had failed to find the lake, and the pilot was getting worried about the petrol they were using.

  "We can't go on like this," he observed. "If we find a long straight stretch of water I'm going to try and get her off; we shall be able to see where we are from the air, but frankly, I don't think it's much use looking for poor Smilee. We can't just leave him, though."

  A fairly straight stretch of water, terminating in a cataract, came into view as they rounded the next bend, and Biggles eyed it grimly.

  "Well," he said, "that settles it; we didn't come over that waterfall. We are on the Beni and we must have drifted in from one of those tributaries we passed. Goodness knows which one it was. It's getting dark; we'd better tie up while we can and get off again as soon as it is light."

  The following morning Biggles taxied up as far as the cataract to make sure there were no obstructions on the water, and then roared down the stream, throttle wide open. There was a slight breeze in their favour and the "Vandal" came off the water without effort.

  They saw the lake almost at once, and Algy pointed with outstretched finger. It lay a few miles to the left, but it

  was not that which made Biggles stare in stunned consternation.

  "Were you smoking when you fell?" yelled Algy above the roar of the engine.

  Biggles nodded.

  "Your cigarette must have started the fire—the place was like tinder."

  Again the pilot nodded and watched the scene below, where for miles a fire was raging over the area of the dead trees. Sparks were falling in showers into the lake. Great blackened areas, still smouldering, showed where the fire had already burnt itself out, or died as it came in contact with the living forest. A mighty cloud of smoke rose high into the air and billowed away across the tree-tops.

  Biggles caught Algy's eye and shook his head; sadly he turned the nose of the machine towards the distant mountains.

  CHAPTER 4

  FAIR CARGO

  "HELLO! What's all this?" Biggles looked in surprise at a formidable heap of letters on the table as he entered his room in the Hotel Guibert in La Paz. "It looks as if we are on the road to fame and fortune," he observed dryly to Algy, as he opened a letter at random. "Listen to this! Here's a fellow wants us to go and look for a ruined city in Yucatan."

  "No, thank you; I saw quite enough of mangrove swamps on British Guiana," replied Algy quickly.

  "How about this for a proposition? A Valparaiso hotel-keeper wants us to fetch cargoes of live lobsters from Juan Fernandez."

  "Not for me," returned Algy incisively. "They might get loose; I've no desire to be torn to pieces in mid-air by infuriated crustaceans."

  "What's this one? How about doing anti-poacher patrols of the guano islands for the Chilean Government?"

  "Definitely, no; guano is too unromantic; besides, it smells."

  "Would you like to go spotting for the eyrie of a king-condor for a film company? They offer five thousand dollars."

  "That sounds more interesting. Anything else?"

  "Yes. Good heavens ! Here's a letter from Sandy Wyndham. You remember Sandy of 207 Squadron—he fell off the wind-stocking pole the day he got that Heinkel over Hamel, and broke both his legs. He went home and I haven't heard of him since. Listen to this.

  "Dear Biggles,

  "I have just been reading about your affair in Bolivia; it's in the home papers. Good show. Do you want to pick up an easy packet of money ? I am in the coconut business now, and have a plantation at Rarotayo, one of the Tonga group of islands. I am home on leave at present, but shall be returning via Panama, arriving there on December 4th. Will you meet me there, as, if so, I will get off and go on by the next boat. Radio-telegraph reply as I shall be at sea when you get this. I am sailing on the s.s. Antinous. Cheerios to Algy. All, the best.

  "Sandy."

  "What do you make of that?" asked Biggles, looking up.

  "It's no use sitting here guessing. Let's go and meet him, by all means. Sandy has done enough flying to know what he's talking about. If we are going we've no time to lose."

  "All right; tell Smyth to get the machine ready; we'll start in the morning."

  II

  Biggles leaned pensively against the somewhat flimsy rail that surrounded the patio of the low adobe rest-house

  •

  which snuggled amid a tangle of cactus and palm near the sun-baked aerodrome at Buenaventura, where the crew of the "Vandal" had perforce broken their long journey to Panama.

  The night air was still, and fragrant with the scent of night-flowering cacti that lifted their waxen petals to the tropic moon, and the bougainvillaea that clambered untidily up the stone pillars which supported the long, overhanging eaves of the pantiled roof.

  Biggles yawned and turned slowly to where Algy re-dined in a long cane chair near a feeble oil-lamp, a newspaper dangling between his fingers.

  "Still pining for Consuelo?" he bantered.

  "As a matter of fact," replied Algy coldly, "I was just thinking what a good thing it was we didn't roll up here a few days ago, or the 'Vandal' might have been comman deered. It seems that Colombia has been writhing in the throes of one of its periodical revolutions, but it's all over now. The rebels have been badly bent, or, rather, busted, and the President's O.C. troops, Generalissimo Pedro da Alligante, is now pursuing the popular pastime of reducing the survivors to produce* by the simple expedient of lining them up against a wall and mowing them down with a machine-gun."

  "Nice feller."

  "Charming. It seems that he's peeved because the leader of the insurrection, young Jose Oliviera, has so far escaped his blood-stained vengeance."

  "I can't understand why people have to squabble in a

  * Service expression, meaning "broken up".

  country like this," observed Biggles disinterestedly, turning once more to the contemplation of the black yet soft latticework shadows of the palms.

  "Bah! If you lived here you'd have half a dozen revolutions running at the same time,"

  sneered Algy, "but what about a spot of shut-eye, it's getting latish—hello—"

  He spra
ng to his feet in puzzled astonishment, as a girl, dressed in a dark clinging gown, with the inevitable mantilla draped around her shoulders, ran swiftly up the steps from the shadows and stood panting before them, her breast rising and falling spasmodically from exertion or agitation, her southern beauty in no way marred by the tears that hung on the lashes of her dark, appealing eyes, now turning from one to the other in tremulous hesitation. Then, with a swift Latin gesture she turned to Biggles and held out her hands.

  "Señor," she faltered.

  "Gently, lady, gently," muttered Biggles uncomfortably, as the girl's body shook with a convulsive, uncontrollable sob, and then, turning to Algy, "Come and do your stuff, laddie ; this is more in your line."

  Algy needed no second invitation. "Que tiente va, senorita ?" he asked anxiously, in his best Spanish.

  "Tomorrow I am to be married," cried the girl in tones of anguish.

  "Why weep about it?" said Biggles, raising his eyebrows.

  "My father has given me to the hateful—" she looked around furtively—"Don Pedro da Alligante. But I will not; I will die by my own hand first," she whispered fiercely.

  "Oh, don't do that," replied Biggles awkwardly. "What can we do about it, anyway?"

  "Help me to escape, señor—take me with you—" "You shall come with me, senorita,"

  declared Algy.

  "Not so fast, laddie, not so fast," broke in Biggles, and then to the girl: "Why not run away? I mean, there are horses and railways and things?"

  "They would catch me, only you can save me—" "But you don't know where we're going!"

  "It matters not—anywhere—"

  "But what is Don Pedro going to say when he discovers I have run away with his beautiful bride?" protested Biggles. "We don't want to be involved in trouble with