"What was in the ?"
"Get aboard your boat if you're going, but you had better cut it adrift and stay with me,"
roared Ericson. "I've slipped my cable. It'll hit us within five minutes."
Biggles looked around. The sun was no longer shining, but glowed in the sky like a great amber-coloured globe. A mist obscured the horizon; above it, from the south-east, a broad indigo belt was racing across the sky towards them at incredible speed. A sinister oily calm lay on the water. "Great Scott !" he gasped, darting towards the stern, where the "Vandal" was moored. Smyth had already cast off, but was hanging on to the ship's painter. "Quick!" snapped Biggles, dropping into the cockpit.
Algy sprang in beside him. "What was in the box?" he yelled.
Biggles's reply was lost in the roar of the engine as it sprang to life. Without another glance at the schooner he thrust the throttle wide open, swung up into the rapidly thickening haze, and banked in a steep climbing turn, towards the island five or six miles away. They were still • two miles from the lagoon, and the black belt of the' typhoon almost overhead, when he yelled, "Strap in!"
They were just in time. Something solid seemed to rise up under the machine and lift it bodily a thousand feet or more into the air at the speed of an express lift.
Then the invisible force seemed to be suddenly snatched away and they braced themselves against the sides of the cabin as the machine dropped like a stone over a colossal "bump".
Biggles knew that it was the first wave of compressed air, packed into fluid-like density by the pressure of the oncoming typhoon. He caught his breath as they struck the firm air at the bottom of the bump with a force that made the machine vibrate from propeller-bosses to tail-wheel. Again the machine quivered and soared vertically, forcing them down in their seats, as an inferno of wind struck it. The pilot thrust the control-column forward with both hands and raced towards the sheltered lagoon on the leeward side of the island.
Algy glanced below and saw that the sea had turned grey. There were no waves, but a raging wind was ripping the surface off the water in a smother of spray; it was like looking down on to the top of a bank of nimbus-cloud. There was no sign of the Sea Eagle.
A spatter of hailstones struck the machine like a burst of machine-gun bullets, and the pilot, knowing full well that hailstones travelling horizontally with the wind, would smash the propellers to pieces as effectively as shrapnel, kicked out his left foot, turned the control-column, and then dragged it back into his right thigh. The "Vandal" turned and sped away like a leaf before the storm.
The island disappeared from sight instantly, for they were now travelling downwind at a terrific rate. Presently they passed the schooner, scudding under bare poles through the raging spindrift. Another island flashed below
in a whirl of white-lashed green and brown; a cloud of palm fronds, branches and debris swirled high into the air and trailed away like smoke over the open sea.
The pilot caught his breath. Ericson and his schooner were doomed, for an island with its jagged reef lay right across their path. It looked as if Bob's box would merely change its position on the bottom of the sea. He tried hard to visualise the map in an effort to remember what land, if any, lay ahead of them. Fortunately the "Vandal's" tanks were nearly full, and at their present speed they could cover a thousand miles, or more, if necessary.
The hours passed slowly. From time to time islands swept by below in a blur of writhing palms and foam-lashed rock, and the pilot scrutinized each one anxiously for a possible anchorage, knowing that they were now too far away from Gospel Island to return, even if the storm abated. Most of the islands held lagoons, some on the leeward side, but the floating and air-borne debris made landing out of the question. He was prepared to land anywhere that would afford a reasonably safe anchorage, where they could wait until the typhoon had passed or blown itself out, and then look for an inhabited island from which to learn their position. Already the storm was abating, or had shifted its course.
"What was in the box?" yelled Algy in the pilot's ear, but Biggles was not listening.
With outstretched finger he pointed ahead to where a long dark coastline stretched across their path. At one place it bayed into a wide estuary, with a river winding like a silver thread behind it into the grey distance. A long bungalow with several outbuildings stood on the edge of a sheltered backwater. As the pilot throttled back and dropped lower he could see a motor-boat with a Union Jack at the bow moored near by.
"Where are we?" he yelled, as he taxied up to the bank, where a man in white ducks, with several natives in uniform, stood awaiting them.
"Fly River, New Guinea. My name's Davidson. I'm the Resident Magistrate. Come in.
You another one of these record-breakers?"
"We've just established a record from Gospel Island to here that will take some beating,"
observed the pilot soberly.
"Never mind records; what I want to know is, what was in the box?" broke in Algy, impatiently.
"Box? Oh, yes—a picture."
"A picture?" stammered Algy uncomprehendingly.
"Yes, a little oil-painting in a gold frame of a girl—Bob's wife, I expect. That was his treasure," added the pilot quietly, passing his hand wearily over his face.
CHAPTER 7
SAVAGES AND WINGS
THE TINY rose-pink early-morning clouds were fast fading in the turquoise sky as the tropical sun mounted rapidly above the horizon. Already its outflung rays were striking the palm-tops and the hills beyond in white bars of heat as Biggles and Algy left their hotel in Port Moresby, New Guinea, whither they had made their way after being driven far from their course by the typhoon.
Unhurriedly they strolled towards the beach to make the daily visit of inspection to the "
Vandal" before proceeding to Government House to report their presence and pay their respects to the Governor of the Island.
In the lattice-like shade of a group of palms a man was lying, chin cupped in the palm of his hand, looking steadfastly at the "Vandal" as it rode the gentle swell near the shore. He was dressed in a loose cotton shirt, open at the throat, and drill trousers that had once been white but that were now creased and soiled by long service. Canvas shoes were thrust loosely on his feet.
It struck Algy that he must have been good-looking before dissipation and fever left their unmistakable marks upon his careworn face.
"This is the fellow who was hanging about the hotel lounge last night, isn't it?" he murmured in an undertone to Biggles as they drew level.
The pilot nodded. "Yes," he said quietly, "and do you know, I can't get away from the idea that I've seen him before somewhere, but I'm dashed if I can remember where."
They were about to pass when the man rose to his feet and came towards them. "That's your machine out there, isn't it?" he asked in a tired but cultured voice.
"It is," admitted Biggles. "Why?"
"Oh, nothing, really. I was interested, that's all;
haven't seen an aeroplane so close before. I used to be a
bit of an engineer before I—well, you can see how things
are now. I wonder ifyou would show me over it sometime?"
"Certainly, only too pleased," replied Biggles readily. "I'm going aboard presently; come and look round, by all means. In fact, Algy," he went on, turning to his partner, "if you don't mind going to see the old man alone I might as well look over her now, before the sun gets up. There are two or three little jobs I want to do and there is no need for us both to go up the hill."
"Righto," agreed Algy. "I'll come back and join you here; I shan't be more than half an hour. Cheerio."
A shock-headed Papuan, his skin gleaming under a new coat of oil and with a scarlet flower tucked behind his ear, paddled Biggles and his new acquaintance out to the machine.
The stranger looked about him with interest. "What are all these things?" he asked, pointing to the row of dials
on the instrument board, and for n
early half an hour he listened in rapt attention while the pilot explained, with professional enthusiasm, the functions of the instruments and showed him how the starter and the wheels operated.
"Mind your head," said Biggles, as the stranger turned to look at the passenger accommodation.
Obediently the other ducked through the low doorway and then stood upright. Biggles bent low to follow. As he put his head down he remembered with a spasm of anger where he had seen the stranger before.
"Why—?" he began, and even as the world exploded inside his head in a sheet of purple flame that faded slowly to blackness he knew that the man had struck him. He pitched forward limply on his face and lay still.
Algy, wending his way slowly down the hillside from Government House, saw the "
Vandal" swing slowly round until she faced the slight sea breeze, skim lightly over the blue water, and rise like a gull into the sun-soaked sky. "Must be giving him a joy-ride, the generous cuss," he 'soliloquised casually, but his brow puckered in surprise as the machine swung round towards the land and then struck off on a steady course towards the blue mountains in the distance. Puzzled, he watched it until it was a mere speck in the sky, and then, deep in thought, returned to the beach, where he flung himself down on the sand to 'await its return.
An hour passed slowly. Smyth, their mechanic, joined him, but could offer no solution to the mystery. Another two hours passed in doubt and vague speculation, and then Algy rose briskly to his feet.
"He's down," he said tersely. "He hadn't four hours petrol on board; I'd better go and see the Governor."
II
Biggles's first conscious realisation as he slowly opened his eyes was that his head ached unmercifully; he next perceived that he was lying on the floor of the cabin, but it was not until he tried to raise his arm to his head to feel the extent of the damage that he made the painful and annoying discovery that his wrists and ankles were firmly tied. At the same moment the roar of the engine died away suddenly, and the floor tilted at an angle which told -him they were gliding down. He tried to raise himself high enough to see out of the cabin-windows, but it was impossible, and his lips turned dry at the thought of a forced landing in his present position
He breathed a sigh of relief and then muttered an exclamation of surprise as the wheels touched solid ground and rumbled slowly to a standstill. The engine was switched off; the door of the cabin opened and the stranger stood before him.
"What's the idea, Dawne?" said Biggles coldly. "You remember me, eh?" replied the other.
"I remembered you a trifle too late," admitted Biggles. "You were at Calshot, weren't you, on a Short Service Commission ?"
"You ought to know," replied the other grimly. "Why?"
"You were President of the Court that smashed me."
Biggles opened his eyes wide in astonishment.
"Yes, I remember," he said slowly. "You were court-martialled for cashing dud cheques.
It was some time ago --I had forgotten it."
"I haven't," returned Dawne curtly. "Well, I don't bear you any malice for that; but listen.
I need hardly tell you that I've a very good reason for coming here. A journey overland would have taken me three months and cost a lot more money than I'm ever likely to get.
Moreover, I didn't want anybody else about, which is another reason why I couldn't bring a party. I couldn't come alone except this way because, as you no doubt know, the local gentry have a penchant for head-hunting, and hiking in these woods is neither a pleasant nor a profitable past-time. Naturally, I never thought I should have the opportunity of flying here. I nearly pitched you the whole yarn last night in the hope that. you would carve in with me; in fact, I would have done if I could have believed that you would have fallen into line. But I knew you wouldn't."
"Still crooked, eh?" observed Biggles.
"Yes, and likely to be," admitted Dawne. "Don't get personal though; that won't help you.
Keep quiet and I'll give you a break. When I've finished here I'll turn you loose. I shall fly back, but not to Moresby. With a bit of luck you might get back to Moresby in a month or two, and by that time I shall be well out of the way. I'll give you a gun if you'll give me your word that you won't use it against me until I get off the ground."
"Your generosity staggers me," sneered Biggles.
"I'll stagger you with something else if you try to be funny. I'm no murderer, Bigglesworth, but I'm not going to stand any nonsense; this is the first real chance I've had since I was smashed."
"How about cutting these straps," suggested Biggles, indicating his bound wrists.
"I will if you'll give me your parole," offered the other. "I'm dashed if I do," replied Biggles through set teeth.
Às you like," nodded Dawne, with a shrug. "I'm moving off now; shall be back in a couple of hours or so. Cheerio !"
Biggles made no reply. For some time he lay still, trying to think out a plan of action, but there seemed little he could do. His wrists were tightly bound, and try as he would he found it impossible to loosen them; neither was there a single projection inside the hull against which he could chafe his bonds in the hope of fraying them. He had no idea of where they were or how far they were from Port Moresby nor could he ascertain whether they were on a beach or in a glade in the forest, although the shrill cries of parrots suggested the latter. The heat in the cabin was stifling and the hours passed slowly.
It was with some relief that he heard the returning footsteps of his abductor. The outside door of the cabin was opened and the ex-officer swung a heavy bag inside. Perspiration streamed down his face, which was flushed with heat and excitement.
"Do you know what that is?" he asked, with a grin. "I neither know nor care," answered Biggles coldly.
"I'll show you." So saying, Dawne opened the top of the bag and inserted his hand; withdrawing it, he allowed a gleaming yellow stream to trickle through his fingers. "
Gold-dust," he muttered in a voice hoarse with triumph.
In spite of his precarious position, Biggles stared incredulously.
" One more load like that and I'm through," went on Dawne. "Shan't be long."
The door closed again and Biggles heard the footsteps recede into the distance. For an hour all was quiet except for the occasional raucous cry of a bird or chatter of a monkey, and the pilot lay lost in thought, trying to solve the desperate problem with which he was faced. Subconsciously he heard a slight thud on the outside of the hull, as if a twig had dropped on it, but he paid little attention. The prospect of being left to struggle back to Port Moresby on foot appalled him. He knew little of the country, but sufficient to understand that not even an experienced prospector with a knowledge of the native dialects would lightly undertake such a task alone. The jungle, except for native tracks, was impenetrable, swarming with leeches, poisonous snakes, and centipedes. The natives, headhunters and cannibals to a man were the most treacherous in the world. The rivers were the only highways, and except for the rare visit of an armed trader or government official were used only by the native canoes and crocodiles.
No, the prospect was not pleasant. Dawne's proposal to turn him loose was little better than a death-sentence, .yet he could understand the ex-officer's disinclination to take him back to Port Moresby, where the arm of the law would speedily upset his plans.
At intervals he heard the soft thud on the outside of the hull that he had heard before, and he wondered vaguely if an inquisitive monkey was exploring the machine. A sudden splintering blow brought him back to realities with a start, and he stared in petrified horror at something that had appeared in the cabin wall just above his face. It was the business end of a spear, nine inches of gleaming steel, still quivering. Another sharp thud on the other side of the cabin made him turn quickly to where an unmistakable arrowhead projected through the thin woodwork of the hull. He noted the dirty brown point and recalled the Papuan's notorious habit of poisoning his arrows. He shuddered, and then a gleam of hope flashed
in his eyes. It was the work of a moment to raise his feet and cut the cord that bound them on the razor-edge of the spearhead. Scrambling to his knees, he severed the cords that tied his wrists and worked his numb fingers to restore the circulation.
He risked a cautious peep out of the cabin-window. The machine was standing under a large tree on a wide but undulating grassy plateau. Turning, he looked through the opposite window and saw that he was within fifty yards of the jungle. There were no signs of natives. Above him the parakeets swung lazily by bill and claw in the tree, over which a cascade of bougainvillaea spread like a purple stain. There were no more arrows; no scene could have appeared more peaceful, but he knew that from the sylvan wall of the forest many bestial eyes were fixed on the amphibian in hate and fear. Again the pilot turned towards the open ground on the other side to ascertain the best direction for a take-off; and he knew at once why the arrows had ceased. Dawne, with a bag slung over his shoulder, was hurrying across the plateau, perhaps a hundred yards distant.
Biggles moved swiftly. He dived through into the pilot's seat, whirled the self-starter, and then yelled as the engine came to life.
"Look out!" he shouted to the approaching man, who, when the engine started, stopped dead in his tracks, then dropped the bag and raced towards the machine. He swerved like a rugby-player as a flight of arrows whistled from the brushwood, and, crouching low,, sprinted for the machine, now taxi-ing slowly towards him.
"Come on! You've made it," yelled Biggles.
Dawne, now thoroughly conscious of his danger, emptied his revolver into the undergrowth as he ran, and then dived under the wing of the machine to reach the door of the cabin. Even as he reached the door he stumbled and pitched forward on to his face, with the handle of a throwing-spear projecting from between his shoulder-blades.
Biggles turned stone-cold at the sight and acted purely on impulse. White-faced, he snatched the throttle back, dived under the low doorway, flung open the cabin door and dragged the fallen man inside. As he slammed the door behind him there was a yell from the wood and a shower of arrows struck the machine. There was another yell as the natives, seeing their prey about to escape,, broke cover and charged.
04 Biggles Flies Again Page 7