36 Biggles Breaks The Silence

by Captain W E Johns

  "I didn't wait for the axe," replied Ginger emphatically. "The eye was enough for me."

  Biggles took his automatic from his pocket and once more approached the companionway. Gone was his earlier nonchalance. He might have been approaching a lion's den. "

  Come out of that," he shouted.

  The answer was a peal of demoniac laughter that made the hairs on the back of Ginger's neck prickle. It did not come so much from the hatch as from the ice under their feet.

  Biggles turned to the others. "I know it sounds crazy, but there is somebody in this hulk,"

  he said soberly.

  "Aye! It's a spook," asserted the Skipper lugubriously. "Come away, mon. Ye canna argue with a spook."

  "I have yet to see a spook that could argue with a 70

  soft-nosed forty-five calibre bullet," answered Biggles trenchantly.

  But the Skipper, all his seafaring superstitions aroused, was as pale as Ginger. His Scotch accent broadened in his agitation. "It's the de'il himsel'," he declared. "I dinna like it. Let'

  s awa'."

  "Away! Not on your life," disputed Biggles grimly. "I'm going to get to the bottom of this." Again he called to the unseen occupant to show himself.

  From the depths came a quavering moan. "Go away. Go away. I found the gold. It's mine—mine."

  "I've got it," cried the Skipper hoarsely. "It's Manton —that's who it is. His puir numbed body lies outside in the cold ice, but his spirit canna rest."

  "Then it's time it could," growled Biggles.

  "The ship's haunted I tell ye," cried the Skipper, backing away.

  "Don't talk such rubbish," rapped out Biggles. "There's a man in this hulk. I don't know who he is and I don't know where he came from, but he's here, and, like Manton, he's gone out of his mind—either gold crazy or mad from loneliness. I'm goitg below to fetch him out."

  "He'll brain ye, mon. Drat the gold. Let's leave it?" implored the Skipper.

  "I wasn't thinking so much about the gold," answered Biggles slowly. "I'm thinking about the man. We can't go away and leave the wretched fellow here."

  The Skipper was silent.

  Said Ginger: "It must have been his eye watching me."

  "No doubt of it," replied Biggles. "I apologise for doubting you, but you must admit that it took some believing."

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  "And to think I was in the ship with—that!" Ginger shivered.

  "Seems daft to get your head split open trying to save a man who doesn't want to be saved," observed the Skipper gloomily. "If ye go doon into you hulk theer'll soon be two graves outside instead of one."

  Biggles nodded. "Mebbe. It's an infernal nuisance. Who could have imagined such a situation?" He looked at Ginger : "Remember what I told you about the unexpected always turning up on expeditions of this sort? Here you have a pretty example of it."

  "What are you going to do with this fellow if you do get him out?" inquired Ginger.

  "We'll talk about that when we've got him," returned Biggles. Turning back to the opening he called: "For the last time, are you coming out?"

  "It's my gold you're after," came the answer, screeched in the voice of a raving lunatic. "I know who you are," was the final surprising statement.

  "Who am I?" called Biggles.

  "Manton," was the staggering reply. "I saw your grave ouside. I've heard you creeping about."

  Understanding dawned in Biggles' eyes. "So that's it," he said softly. "The wretched fellow has gone crazy imagining Manton has returned from the grave to get the gold.

  Well, it's no use messing about any longer. I'm going in after him."

  "You must be madder than he is," snorted the Skipper. "We can't leave him here,"

  returned Biggles briefly; and with that he disappeared down the steps.

  "We can't let him go down there alone," cried Ginger in alarm, and ran forward to follow.

  But the Skipper caught his arm and held him. "You stay where you are," he said shortly.

  "I'll go." Without

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  waiting for the protest which he guessed would come, he, too, dived down the stairs.

  Ginger took out his pistol and stood ready to move quickly should it be necessary. He noted that Biggles' prediction about the weather had come to pass. Fine snow was falling, reducing visibility to twenty or thirty yards. But before he had time to ponder the consequences this was likely to produce there came from somewhere below a wild yell and the crash of splintering ice. A moment later, from the place where he had seen the head, leapt the wild, unkempt figure of a man who sobbed and babbled in the manner of a terrified child. Ginger caught a glimpse of a white haggard face almost surrounded by a mane of tangled reddish hair. In his arms the man clutched an object which he recognised at once. It was one of the gold bars. Ginger moved quickly, thinking that the maniac-for maniac the man obviously was—intended to attack him. But this was not so. With a screech that was scarcely human the man jumped down to the level ice, fell, picked himself up, and still clutching the ingot, still sobbing, disappeared into the blur of falling snow. Ginger, not knowing what to do, in the end did nothing.

  Biggles, followed by the Skipper, came scrambling out of the companion-way. "Where is he? Which way did he go?" asked Biggles tersely.

  Ginger pointed. "That way. He's got a bar of gold with him."

  "Poor chap," said Biggles sympathetically. "A precious lot of good that'll do him out there. I'm afraid it's no use trying to follow him in these conditions. He probably knows his way about, and so may make his way back presently. That's what gold does to a man.

  "

  "Who on earth can it be?" asked Ginger wonderingly.

  "I know who he is," put in the Skipper, surprisingly.

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  Biggles spun round. "You know!" he exclaimed.

  "Yes. It's Larsen, the Swede I told you about, who was lost when I was down here in the Svelt. Wandering about, he must have tumbled on the hulk by accident and has been living in it ever since. I only got a glimpse of him just now, but I remember that red hair.

  I should have known the voice. He was one of the few men I could trust. Mebbe that's why Lavinsky was content to leave him behind."

  "Well, that's settled the mystery of the sinister eye, anyway," said Biggles.

  "What happened when you went below?" asked Ginger.

  "Nothing much. The poor wretch was whining like a whipped dog. When he saw us coming he bolted. I went after him, but he crashed through some ice and disappeared.

  Apparently he knew of another way out."

  "Did you see the gold?"

  "Yes. It's there—but it isn't all on the table any longer. Having seen you, Larsen must have guessed you'd come back, so he had started to hide the gold in a hole in the ice.

  Another half hour and he would have finished the job, in which case the metal would probably have remained in the ice for ever. We should never have found it. I should have assumed that Lavinsky had got here first and made off with the lot."

  "I'm surprised that Larsen didn't try to hide the stuff before to-day," put in the Skipper.

  "Why should he?" queried Biggles. "About the last thing he'd expect was visitors. No doubt he was as surprised to see Ginger as Ginger was to see him—or rather, his eye.

  Had it been otherwise Ginger might have got his brains knocked out. As soon as Ginger bolted Larsen's first thought was to save his precious gold."

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  The Skipper thrust his hands into his pockets. "What are we going to do about him?'

  "It's hard to know what to do, and that's a fact," admitted Biggles. "I don't think it's much use looking for the chap. If we go, I imagine he'll come back. If he does, the first thing he'll do will be to lug the gold out somewhere in the snow. It wouldn't be much use looking for it then. We can't let that happen. Our plan, therefore, must be to put the gold where he can't find it."

  "You mean—take it back to camp?" asked Ginger. "Good gracious, no. That would be a tremendous ta
sk, taking far more time than we could afford."

  "But it will have to be carried to the machine sooner or later," argued Ginger.

  "Not at all. It would be a lot easier to bring the machine here."

  "True enough," agreed Ginger. "What about landing, though. Is there enough room?"

  "I think so. I kept an eye open for possible landing areas as we walked here. It's quite flat between the hulk and the open water. What we'll do is carry the gold to a convenient place not far away, cover it with snow and then fetch the machine. If it comes to that, there's no need for everyone to walk back to camp. With Larsen on the loose, to be on the safe side someone should stay with the gold. You're looking tired, Ginger; perhaps you'll stay. The Skipper can come back with me to help clear up the camp. I don't think you've anything to fear from Larsen. If the snow continues he wouldn't be able to find you even if he tried. If, it stops, he couldn't get to you without your seeing him. How does that sound?"

  No one had a better plan so it was agreed.

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  "Are you going to start on the gold right away?" asked Ginger.

  "We might as well," answered Biggles. "In fact, the sooner the better. The snow isn't as thick as it was. We may get a break but I'm afraid there's more snow to come. It's not so bad at the moment, at any rate."

  This was true. The snow had practically ceased, but the sky was still grey with a promise of more.

  Ginger gazed across the desolate waste of the well-named White Continent. It was possible again to see a fair distance, but there was not a movement anywhere. He wondered where the unfortunate Swede had managed to hide himself, and made a remark to that effect.

  "He's probably busy hiding his lump of gold," answered Biggles. "There's nothing we can do about him for the time being. Let's get cracking on shifting the bullion."

  This proved to be a wearisome task, even though the gold had to be carried no great distance—merely to a point about one hundred yards from the open sea where, as the surface of the ice was smooth, and the snow thin, Biggles said he could put the aircraft down without much risk of accident. The ingots were heavy, but once hoisted on a shoulder one could be carried fairly easy. Transportation proceeded, therefore, at the rate of one bar per man per journey.

  "I never thought the day would come when I should get tired of carrying gold," remarked Ginger wearily, when, with the work finished, he sank down on the stack of precious metal.

  "To move a ton of anything would be just as tiresome," Biggles pointed out, perhaps unnecessarily. "Still, it's finished now. I'll go with the Skipper back to camp, collect anything that we're likely to need, and bring the machine along. Sure you don't mind staying, Ginger?"

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  "No, I'll stay."

  "I shall be back in a couple of hours at the outside," stated Biggles. "As soon as the machine is in the air I'll get Grimy to make a signal to Algy asking him to fly down and help carry the stuff home. We'll light a smudge fire to show him where we are. He should have no difficulty in finding us."

  "What had I better do if Larsen comes for me?" asked Ginger. "I wouldn't like to use my gun on a lunatic."

  "A shot or two would probably scare him," suggested Biggles. "Personally, I don't think he'll worry you. He seemed terrified out of his wits by the mere sight of us, poor fellow.

  Our problem is how to get him home. However, we'll deal with that when the time comes. We'll get along now, while the weather's fair. See you presently."

  Biggles and the Skipper set off down the track the party had made on its outward journey.

  Ginger watched them go. Quite content to rest for a while he arranged the gold bars in the manner of a seat and sat down to wait for the aircraft. The whimsical thought struck him that few people had been privileged to use a ton of pure gold as a seat. Actually, little of it could be seen, because the lower bars had sunk into the snow; and the thought occurred to him that if he should have to leave the spot for any reason he might have difficulty in finding it again. A short distance away stood one of the guide sticks he had used to mark his trail earlier in the day, so he fetched it, and arranged it in the heap like a miniature flag-staff. He could think of nothing else to do so he settled down, from time to time subjecting the landscape to a searching scrutiny for a possible sight of the castaway.

  But he saw nothing of him. The time passed slowly, and he began to understand 77

  even more clearly why men marooned in this white world of silence soon went out of their minds. The loneliness became a tangible thing, an invisible enemy that stood ever at his elbow. The utter absence of sound weighed like lead upon his nerves.

  It was with relief, therefore, that he heard in the far distance the sound of the Wellington'

  s engines being started, for this at once seemed to put him in touch with the world of noise and bustle that he knew. Listening, he heard the drone rise to crescendo as the motors were run up. The sound died abruptly, and he could visualise Biggles sitting in the cockpit with the engines idling while he waited for the others to get aboard. Again came the vibrant roar and he imagined Biggles taking off. Good. In five minutes his vigil would end. But instead of this the note rose and- fell several times in a manner which he could not understand. Then it died altogether. What had happened, he wondered. The only thing he could think of was, Biggles had for some reason taken off in the opposite direction and in so doing had run out of earshot. Presently he would hear him coming back. He waited, listening intently. The silence persisted. Not a sound of any sort reached his ears. What could have happened? At first he was merely disappointed, but as the minutes passed and still nothing happened his disappointment turned to uneasiness, and from uneasiness to apprehension.

  Time passed. Still no sound came to break the frigid solitude. Over the world hung a trance-like calm, a calm that was the calmness of death. Sitting still, the intense cold began to strike at him with silent force. He looked at his watch, ticking inexorably its measurement of time. Biggles had been gone more than three hours. He knew then that he could not deceive himself any longer. Something had gone wrong. Biggles was in trouble. He stood

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  up, staring in the direction of the camp. But he could see nothing. A few flakes of snow were now falling from a sky as grey as his mood.

  VIII

  THE UNEXPECTED AGAIN

  GINGER was right in his assumption that Biggles was in trouble; and it was trouble of a sort that Biggles thought he should have foreseen.

  There had been no difficulty about the return journey to the camp. Everything was just as it had been left. Grimy sat by the fire with hot coffee waiting. Biggles and the Skipper each paused for a cup and then straight away set about the business of packing up, which consisted of no more than sorting out the most valuable equipment and sufficient food to see them over the next forty-eight hours. By that time, Biggles asserted, they should be back at the Falklands, and there was no point in loading the machine with unnecessary weight. The value of the cargo they were taking home would render negligible the cost of anything they left behind. The work, therefore, did not take long. The things required were securely stowed in the aircraft and the rest left where they were.

  This done, Biggles climbed into the cockpit and ran up the engines. Satisfied and relieved to find that they were giving their revolutions he called to the others to get aboard and at once made ready to take off. The Skipper took the spare seat beside him, while Grimy went to his place at the wireless cabin with a message that Biggles 79

  had written for transmission to Algy, asking him to come straight out to help him to carry home the "goods."

  When all was ready Biggles went through the usual formula for taking off. Nothing happened. The machine did not move. The engines bellowed. Still the aircraft did not move. He tried again, giving the engines as much throttle as he dare risk; but the machine remained as immobile as a rock. He throttled back and considered the situation; and it did not take him long to realise that only one thing could have
happened. His landing chassis had either sunk in the snow or in some way had become attached to it. He switched off.

  These, of course, were the sounds that Ginger had heard when he had supposed, naturally enough, that the machine had taken off, whereas in fact it had not left the ground.

  Looking rather worried Biggles climbed down, and the others followed him. They found him on his knees examining the skis. He got up when the others joined him. "I ought to be kicked for not thinking of it," he remarked, with bitter self-denunciation.

  "What's wrong, sir?" asked Grimy.

  "The machine's been standing still long enough for the skis to become frozen to the snow. It must have been that slight rise in temperature that did it. I should have foreseen the possibility."

  "Won't the engines pull her off?" enquired the Skipper.

  "This is an aircraft—not a tugboat," returned Biggles. "If I gave her full throttle and she came unstuck suddenly you'd see the unusual picture of an aeroplane turning a somersault. This is no place for exhibitions of that sort."

  "Can anything be done about it?"

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  "Yes, but it's going to take time, and Ginger is going to take a dim view of it if he's left sitting out on his own. Still, he should take no harm. All we can do is cut the ice from under the skis and slide something under to prevent them from sticking again until we can get her off. Bring me the cold chisel, Grimy—the one we used for opening the packing cases."

  Grimy brought the tool.

  "Now you can start knocking to pieces some cases to get some boards," ordered Biggles.

  "We'll stick them under as we go along." Dropping on his knees he started chipping away the frozen snow. After a little while he paused to regard his work. "We can do it," he observed, "but it's going to take a little while. What has happened is, the whole weight of the machine falling on the skis has pressed the snow till it's as hard as ice. At the same time they got stuck up. I seem to recall reading of a fellow who got into a similar jam. A few pieces of board would have prevented it. However, in this business there's always something new to learn."

  The work continued. The Skipper found a screwdriver and started on the second ski, while Grimy stood by and slipped boards under as the frozen snow was cleared away.