"Raffa Island: it is he," grated the Chinaman between his teeth, clenching and unclenching his hands. "Let me tell you," he went on quickly. "My name is Hoi Sing, and my father is a rich man, a merchant in Shanghai. I was on my way to India with a valuable cargo in one of our ships when I met this fiend. He attacked my ship and sank it while we were fetching fresh water from an island. Most of my men were ashore, but I was captured, taken out to sea and then thrown overboard. He should have killed me first," he concluded, with a curious smile.
"What do you propose to do?" asked Biggles sympathetically.
"If you take me to Rangoon I can do nothing," went on the other quickly, "for he will hide among the hundreds of islands between here and the Philippines, as he always does, and where he cannot be found. If you would allow me to hire your aeroplane for a day, or perhaps two days, I can outwit him. I don't mind what it costs as long as I can lay hands upon this villain—three thousand—five thousand dollars—I don't mind."
Biggles made a quick mental calculation. "That's all right with me," he agreed, "but you won't mind my mentioning that you don't look particularly affluent at the moment."
The Chinaman flushed slightly. "I quite understand that," he said at once. "I know I must look like a beggar, but it is not so. First of all I must have money and clothes. Take me, then, to Penang, where my uncle will furnish me with all I need and I will pay you in advance. Then all I ask you to do is to transport me and my men to the farther end of the island where Li Chi's junk is at anchor. You may leave the rest to me. In my country we have our own way of dealing with brigands."
"So I understand," said Biggles dryly. "How many men have you?"
"About fourteen or fifteen, I think."
" We could take them in three loads, Algy," said Biggles, turning to his partner. "It shouldn't take long; it isn't far between the islands. We can each take a rest while the other takes a load across."
Five minutes later they were in the air, retracing their course to Penang.
II
"1 shall have to ask you to take a message to my uncle," said their passenger, half apologetically, as they taxied in on arrival. "I cannot very well go ashore like this."
"No, you can't," agreed Biggles. "Scribble a note and I'll take it along. Algy, you see about getting the tanks
filled up while I'm away; better get a few spare tins inside as well, if you can. I shan't be long."
He was back within an hour, bringing with him not only a chest of clothes and two heavy canvas bags that jingled promisingly, but Hoi Sing's uncle, who had insisted on seeing his unfortunate nephew.
In swift Chinese Hoi Sing explained what had transpired, and then counted out the sum agreed upon for the hire of the machine.
"Well, let's get away," said Biggles at last; "we've a lot to do yet."
The old Chinaman hurried ashore, and once more they headed towards the scene of Hoi Sing's disaster. They passed the yellow-sailed junk on the way, and the Chinaman eyed it with cold hostility. He directed them to a smaller island on the horizon and then requested them to land in a sheltered bay, which he assured them offered a safe anchorage. There was no sign of Hoi Sing's crew as they taxied in, but in response to a peculiar whistle from the Chinaman, who, now clad in a blue silk kimono, stood up conspicuously in the rear cockpit, a shrill babble of voices came from the jungle.
A number of men broke cover, pointed, called to others, and then ran down to the beach in obvious delight. Biggles eyed them with disapproval, for a more unsavoury crowd he had never seen. Of the fourteen who waded out to meet them nearly all were Chinese, but there were one or two Malay dyaks, armed with the inevitable kris, and a negro. For a few minutes he watched the scene, unable to understand a word of the conversation, but able to follow
Hoi Sing's dramatic explanation of his reappearance by his gestures. He noted the open-eyed amazement of the crew as Hoi Sing described how he had been picked up out of the sea; the doubtful hesitation as he told them they were to be taken to another island in the aeroplane, and the sharp intakes of breath when he explained the reason.
Biggles called the Chinaman's attention to the sun, already past its zenith, and the first half-dozen passengers were quickly in their place. Relinquishing his seat to Algy, he went ashore with Smyth to await the return of the "Vandal." Three journeys were necessary, but by evening Hoi Sing and his crew had been safely transported across the intervening stretch of water, and Biggles was wishing his first and only Oriental client goodbye.
"I can never thank you enough for what you have done for me today," said Hoi Sing courteously. "May I ask you and your friend to accept this?"—he handed the pilot a tiny package, sealed with wax. "You may never know how much I am in your debt," he went on, "but I must ask you, however, not to unwrap my present until you reach Rangoon.
Goodbye."
Biggles thrust the packet into his pocket and watched the retreating figure of the Chinaman in quiet amusement. "Queer cove," he observed. "Well," he went on with a change of tone, "let's get the machine up on the beach for the night; we'll push on to Rangoon tomorrow."
Just before dawn Bigglesworth was awakened by the distant rattle of musketry.
"What's all that din?" muttered Algy drowsily in the darkness.
"It sounds as if Li Chi's getting his beauty-sleep disturbed," said Biggles sleepily.
"Serves him right," grunted Algy philosophically, relapsing again into slumber.
Two days later Biggles sat on the palm-shaded verandah of the Hotel Mandalay in Rangoon, plotting the course of the next "leg" of their journey, which would take them to Calcutta. Beside him Algy was reclining comfortably in a long cane chair, reading a local newspaper he had picked up in the lounge. Biggles, happening to glance up, noticed that his face wore a curious expression and he instinctively leaned over to see what was intriguing him.
He stiffened in his chair as his eyes fell on a paragraph-heading in bold type on the front page. There were only two words—Li Chi—and he read on with interest.
"News of what must be one of the most astounding sea mysteries of recent years has been revealed by a wireless message just received from Singapore.
"As published in this journal a few days ago, the authorities were recently informed of the position of the notorious pirate Li Chi, who was known to be en route for India with a quantity of opium. This information was furnished by Captain Hoi Sing, whose junk, with its conspicuous yellow sail, is a frequent visitor to this port.
"It will be remembered that Captain Hoi Sing was once
• an associate of Li Chi, but left him on a difference of opinion and subsequently received an amnesty from the Government in return for certain services.
"As a result of the information, Captain Starkey, of the Government sloop Cormorant, was able to intercept Li Chi,
and after a swift engagement succeeded in capturing the junk and its captain. Captain Starkey reported that a number of the crew had put off in a small boat at the last moment and succeeded in reaching an island, where, as they had taken refuge in the thick jungle, it was not thought worth while to pursue them. Captain Starkey confiscated the contraband and took the junk in tow, but it shortly afterwards sank in deep water from the damage it had received.
"That same night, while being escorted to Captain Starkey's cabin for interrogation, Li Chi sprang overboard, presumably preferring to die rather than suffer inevitable imprisonment. The sloop was at once stopped and a search made, but as the pirate could not be found it was thought that he had been drowned or become the prey of the sharks that, infest these waters.
"Yesterday, Captain Dupree, of the s.s. Pacific, put in at Raffa Island for fresh water. He reports by wireless to Singapore that Captain Hoi Sing and his entire crew have been murdered and lie dead on the beach. A later message states that the murdered Captain's junk, easily recognized by its yellow sail, has been seen sailing north-west before a fair wind, as if bound for an Indian port.
"It would seem that in som
e unaccountable manner Li Chi's crew succeeded in crossing from the island to which they escaped, to Raffa Island, a distance of about twenty-five miles, where they succeeded in overpowering Captain Hoi Sing and seizing his ship. The authorities are unwilling to accept this theory, pointing out that if it is correct the boats by which Li Chi's crew reached Raffa Island
would still be there, whereas Captain Dupree states definitely that there is not a single boat on the island. Further, they are unable to reconcile the subsequent movements of the junk in proceeding towards India as if the pirates were still in possession of their illicit cargo, which, as previously stated, had been confiscated by Captain Starkey. It is, of course, impossible that a fresh supply of the forbidden opiate could have been obtained in the time at their disposal. We await subsequent developments with interest."
Biggles looked up and drew a deep breath, as his eyes met those of his partner. "That reminds me," he said in a strained voice, moistening his lips. He groped in his pocket and took out a tiny package sealed with wax. He tore it open impatiently. Two magnificent pink pearls rolled into the palm of his hand from a slip of paper. On the paper, in a small neat hand, was written :
A small token of my eternal gratitude,
LI CHI.
"What do you think was in that chest we fetched from Penang?" asked Biggles, speaking with difficulty. "I'll give you two guesses," grinned Algy.
"I know the sooner we're out of this locality the happier I shall be," observed Biggles grimly.
CHAPTER 9
DOWN IN THE FOREST
BIGGLES glanced upwards approvingly at a sky of unbroken blue, as he taxied the "
Vandal" into position for a take-off outside Rangoon harbour for the next "hop" of the journey which would, he hoped, bring them to Calcutta, with Akyab as an intermediate emergency landing-ground.
"I think we may risk the short cut," he told Algy, confidently, referring to a previous discussion as to whether or not they should follow the coast-line or cut across that part of Burma where the wandering Irrawaddy at last breaks up into a hundred mouths and leech-infested swamps, and where at least one British long-distance airman has met his death—a grim fact they had not overlooked.
"We'll take a chance," replied Algy philosophically, "but I don't mind admitting I shan't be happy until we hit the, coast again; a forced landing in that country and we're sunk; that's where poor Hook
"
"All right—I know all about that," replied Biggles shortly. "If the weather was anything but perfect I wouldn't take the chance," he added, opening the throttle.
The rhythmic purr of the engine became a challenging roar and the machine sped across the sparkling blue waters of the Gulf of Martaban in a cloud of spray; then, as the pilot eased the control-column back, the churning wake fell away astern and the "Vandal"
soared gracefully into the tropic sky, swinging round under a touch of the rudder-bar until the compass needle pointed east-northeast.
Biggles studied the ground ahead, where a dozen meandering streams lay like a carelessly dropped skein of silver ribbons across the inevitable paddy-fields. But the cultivation soon gave way to wilder country, and presently the "Vandal" was winging its way over dark-green virgin jungle and wide areas of bamboo and mangrove swamp.
For some time neither of the men in the cockpit spoke, but settled down to that curious condition which can only be described as semi-comatose-yet-wide-awake—the feeling of alert restfulness well known to all long-distance pilots.
Biggles, who had been staring thoughtfully ahead, suddenly fixed his gaze. A frown puckered his forehead. Algy, following his gaze, pulled the corners of his mouth down in an expression of annoyance.
The object of their attention would not have been immediately apparent to a passenger; indeed, nobody except perhaps a seaman or an airman would have noticed it. The peaks of the Arakan Yoma range that lay in their line of flight were now not quite so clear-cut as they had been a few moments before; that was all. Five minutes later, although they were appreciably nearer, the mountains had disappeared completely.
The pilot opened the throttle wide and began climbing for height in order to get above the mist into which they appeared to be heading, fervently hoping it would not develop into one of those opaque fogs which make flying in Farther India so treacherous. He looked back, but there was no escape that way; if anything, the conditions there were worse. He shrugged his shoulders resignedly as the landscape was slowly blotted out by billowing, clouds of vapour. He was not particularly worried, for they were at least halfway to the coast on the other side of the peninsula, where over the warm water of the Indian Ocean the fog would certainly terminate as abruptly as if it had been chopped off with a knife. They were well above the mist and experienced no difficulty in maintaining their original course, and except for the unlikely event of engine failure they had nothing to fear.
Five minutes later, without a single warning splutter, the engines cut out dead.
Not by the slightest movement did the pilot at the control-column indicate that the cessation of noise, in the present atmospheric conditions, was as likely to prove as fatal as a death-sentence. The nose of the machine dropped as he eased the column forward in a glide towards the invisible earth below. And then, as quickly as they had stopped, the engines sprang to life again.
Biggles looked at his partner and his lips formed the words: "Petrol outlet."
Algy nodded, knowing perfectly well that with a clogged
petrol outlet from the tank their safe arrival was now in the, hands of the gods. It might last until they reached the coast or it might not; foreign matter around the petrol outlet pipe can play strange tricks. They were not left long in suspense. Twice the engines cut out and each time they picked up again. Another brief interval and they went for the third and last time; the propellers stopped turning. The pilot dived as steeply as he dared with the throttle levers still forward in a forlorn hope that they might pick up again, but in vain, and the next moment they were enveloped in the enshrouding mist.
Biggles drew the control-column back until they were gliding almost at stalling point, and with his eyes on the altimeter waited for the inevitable crash; 7,000-6,0004,000-2, 000—the needle crept back inexorably on the dial, and still the cold grey mist enveloped them. The silence was uncanny.
"Tell Smyth not to jump," said the pilot coolly, and Algy, with set face, turned his head and passed back the instructions to their mechanic, who, with a wisdom born of experience, had already drawn his knees up to his chin and folded his arms over his face in anticipation of the coming shock. At five hundred feet by the instrument a dark shadow loomed below through the mist; a second later it became possible to see the ground.
"Forest," said Biggles shortly.
"Yes. No—water !" cried Algy, half rising in his seat.
The pilot made a swift turn that nearly flung Algy overboard, determined at all costs not to lose sight of that narrow lake that meant salvation.
For the next few seconds he circled in a tight S turn, side-slipped gently, and then dropped quietly on the unruffled surface of a sheet of water, the machine finishing its run within ten yards of a dark belt of mangroves.
For a little while nobody spoke; then Biggles passed his hand wearily over his face. "
Seems to be our lucky day," he observed quietly.
Algy nodded. "You're right," he admitted limply. "I don't want another fright like that for a bit. It would be interesting to know just where we are," he added as an afterthought.
"It would," replied Biggles, "but I fancy we are better off here than we were upstairs. We can at least sit still until the fog lifts; there is plenty of room to get off again when it does. Hullo! We're drifting. Try to catch hold of something to hang on to while I help Smyth clear the outlet pipe."
A few minutes later he paused in his work to look at the place into which they had drifted—a long dark backwater with mangroves and occasional patches of the water-loving mipas-palms
on either side, nearly meeting overhead. There was no question of going ashore even if they could have reached the bank, for the ground on each side was inundated as far as they could see and strewn with rotting skeletons of trees. Vivid-green moss clung to the roots and masses of grey lichen hung from the branches.
"Don't fall in," he warned Algy, who was trying to reach an overhanging bough; "there are certain to be crocs about—and things like that," he added, pointing to a large water-snake that glided along the trunk of a half-submerged tree at their approach.
"We're still drifting," observed Algy.
'It doesn't matter if we art,' replied Biggles; "we shouldn't go far at this rate, anyway, and we can taxi back as soon as the pipe is cleared."
II
It was late in the afternoon, however, before the outlet had been unclogged, and the engines were once more giving their full revolutions. The mist had rolled away as suddenly as it had appeared, and without the slightest anxiety they commenced to taxi back up the dim avenue down which they had been slowly drifting for several hours.
"Stop her!" It was Algy who spoke, standing up in his seat and looking at the bank with a curious expression on his face. "We're wrong," he went on in a puzzled tone of voice; "
we didn't come down here."
"Are you sure?" replied Biggles, with an uncomfortable twinge of alarm.
"Certain. We haven't passed that dead tree before—that one with the orchid growing on it. We should have taken the narrow turning at that last fork. Let's go back."
The machine was turned and they taxied slowly back over their course. They reached the fork to which Algy had referred, but a few minutes later were confronted by a triple fork, and, to add to their confusion, there were several turnings or tributaries on each side.
"I don't like this," muttered Biggles uneasily; "we should have watched where we were going, but I think this is the one."
They set off up a new waterway, taxi-ing more quickly in their anxiety, but it narrowed until the wings of the machine were nearly touching the sombre trees on either side and they knew they were again mistaken. Without speaking, they turned the amphibian, not without difficulty, and were almost immediately confronted by a bewildering maze of forks and side-turnings. A fallen tree, half submerged, effectually barred any further progress in the path they had taken..
04 Biggles Flies Again Page 9