by W E Johns
‘The Chief Petty Officer in charge of the shore party gave me a verbal report.’
‘Where have these people come from suddenly? They weren’t here yesterday, I’ll swear.’
‘Why are you so sure of that?’
‘Because if they had been they would have molested us. Had they been here they would certainly have seen us land, and, scattered as we were, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to have bumped us off. Moreover, they would have been to Tom Lowery’s crash, if only to look for plunder, yet nothing had been touched. I tell you, Sullivan, these people—whoever they are—came here today. Have you seen any native craft about?’
‘I haven’t seen a craft of any sort for days except a junk, beating north, well out to sea.’
‘A junk! When did you see a junk?’
‘This morning.’
‘Was it under steam or sail?’
‘Both, I fancy, judging by the speed she was moving, although she was too far away for me to say with certainty.’
‘What sail was she carrying?’
‘A mains’l and a jib—or what goes for them.’
‘Was the mains’l red and the jib yellow, by any chance?’
Sullivan raised his eyebrows. ‘Why, yes, that’s right,’ he answered quickly.
Biggles thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and, coming to a standstill, faced the commander squarely. ‘I saw that, same craft—let me see, when would it be?—yesterday morning. But it was a long way north of here. I don’t understand—’ He wrinkled his forehead as he pondered the problem. ‘What course was this junk on when you saw her?’ he asked.
‘Mainly north, but I wouldn’t swear that she wasn’t making a little westerly.’
‘Westerly, eh! That means that even if you had watched her you would have lost sight of her as she passed behind the next island—what’s the name of it?’
‘Lattimer Island.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What are you trying to get at?’
‘I’m trying to work out how a boat could have landed these toughs on the island since we came here without our knowing it. Mind you, even if that is what happened it doesn’t necessarily follow that they are connected with the people we are up against.’
‘Is it possible that they could have landed?’
‘Certainly—if the junk beat back to the far side of the island after disappearing behind Lattimer Island.’
‘Then you think the junk’s still hanging about not far away?’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised.’
‘Well, we can soon satisfy ourselves on that point,’ declared Sullivan. ‘Let’s have the anchor up and sail round the island. How does that strike you?’
Algy noticed that Biggles was staring at Sullivan with a most extraordinary expression on his face; heard him say ‘No’ in a detached sort of way, as if he were suddenly disinterested in the conversation. Then he appeared to recover himself.
‘No, I don’t think there’s any necessity for that,’ he exclaimed, in a firm voice. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m half inclined to think that Ginger’s imagination got away with him when he was ashore, and that Gilmore died from snake-bite.’
Ginger stared at Biggles incredulously, wondering what had suddenly come over him.
His manner was most odd. Without looking at them, he had walked the length of the cabin, turned at right-angles, and, with his eyes on the floor, was now walking back as close to the wall as possible. Near to the port-hole he stopped, facing them, as if grateful for the slight change of temperature the position afforded.
‘What I hope most of all,’ he continued, ‘is that my staff have not lost their capacity for prompt action.’ He spoke quietly, but there was a curious inflection in his voice, and Ginger quivered suddenly as the full significance of the words dawned on him.
Something was about to happen. But what?
‘I don’t understand you,’ muttered Sullivan, frowning. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘I’ll show you,’ answered Biggles, and whirling round, he thrust his right hand and arm far through the port-hole.
The others heard him catch his breath, saw him take a quick pace backwards, bracing himself as if to support a weight, at the same time jerking his arm inwards. They all sprang to their feet as a brown face, wearing an expression of astonished alarm, appeared in the circular brass frame of the port-hole. Biggles’s fingers were twisted in the long hair.
‘Outside, Sullivan,’ he snapped. ‘You’ll have to get him from the outside. Jump to it! Algy, get your hands round his neck—I daren’t let go his hair. It’s all right, he can’t get his arms through.’
The whole thing had happened in an instant of time, but after the first speechless second the spectators moved swiftly. Sullivan darted through the doorway. There was a rush of feet on deck. Algy, as he had been bidden, took the eavesdropper’s neck in his hands in a grip that threatened to choke him.
‘Go steady,’ said Biggles tersely. ‘Don’t throttle him. I shall want him to be able to talk presently.’
It was an extraordinary situation. The man, now snarling with rage, had his head through the port-hole and his shoulders jammed tightly against the frame, the rest of his body being outside. Clearly, the capture would have to be effected from without, for the porthole was much too small for the man’s body to go through it.
There came a splash of a boat on the water, and muffled words outside.
‘All right, sir, let go; we’ve got him,’ said someone.
Biggles and Algy released their grips. The face disappeared, and a moment later Sullivan walked back into the cabin, smiling.
‘By gosh! That was smart work,’ he exclaimed. ‘How the dickens did you know he was there?’
‘I saw his fingers as he pulled himself up,’ answered Biggles. ‘Or rather, I saw the reflection of his fingers in that mirror.’ He pointed to a small square mirror on the opposite wall. ‘They only appeared for a moment,’ he went on, ‘because once the fellow was up he could keep his balance in the canoe, or whatever he was in, by just resting his hands on the outside of the destroyer. He was in a very nice place, too, because not only could he hear every word we said, but he could see us—or our reflections—in the mirror, without our seeing him. That’s what made it so awkward. I daren’t warn you by word or action for fear he bolted. That is why I didn’t agree with you about making a search for the junk. I had just seen him, and I was afraid he’d be off to tell his pals what was afoot before I could collar him. I daren’t leave the room either, in case he took it as a sign that he had been spotted; all I could do was make a grab in the dark and hope for the best. Luckily I managed to get him by the hair. What was he in—a boat?’
‘Not he. A boat would have been seen by the watch, as he knew jolly well. He was standing on a length of tree-trunk; paddled himself here beside it with only his nose out of the water, I expect. No doubt he saw the light in the port-hole and made it his objective, which, as it turned out, was a pretty shrewd choice. What about this junk though?’
‘Let’s hear what the prisoner has to say for himself before we make any decision about that.’
‘I doubt if he can speak English.’
‘I should say he can, otherwise he wouldn’t have been sent here. I mean to say, he was probably selected for the job on account of that qualification.’
There was a murmur outside the door, and a knock; it was then thrown open to admit four men: the Chief Petty Officer who had been in charge of the shore-party and two sailors who between them held the prisoner by the arms, although his wrists had been handcuffed behind his back. He was stark naked and dripping wet. Lank black hair hung half-way down his neck.
‘Will you do the questioning?’ invited Sullivan, looking at Biggles.
Biggles nodded. ‘I’ll ask him a few things first, and then, if there’s anything else you want to know, you can have a go.’ He sat down and fixed his eyes on the man’s face.
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nbsp; ‘What’s your nationality?’ he asked, speaking very distinctly.
The man glowered and made no reply.
‘Come on, you can speak English.’
Not by a single sign did the prisoner betray that he understood.
A hard glint came into Biggles’s eyes. ‘You heard me,’ he rapped out sharply. ‘Where have you come from?’
The man only stared at him sullenly.
Biggles nodded grimly. ‘I see; it’s like that, is it?’ he said slowly. ‘Listen here, my man. You’re on a British warship, and if you behave yourself you’ll have a fair trial, but if you try being awkward you’ll find that we can be awkward, too. Now then. Who sent you to this ship?’
Still the prisoner did not answer.
Biggles glanced at Sullivan. ‘Do you think your stokers could loosen his tongue?’ he asked meaningly.
The commander nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said simply, ‘they’d make a dumb man speak if I told them to.’
‘Very well. Let them take him below and see what they can do,’ ordered Biggles harshly. ‘And you can tell them if they fail they needn’t bring him back here; tell them to open one of the furnaces and throw him in.’ Biggles eyelids flickered slightly as he caught Ginger’s gaze on him.
The prisoner stirred uneasily, and his little eyes flashed from one to the other of his interrogators.
‘All right! Take him away,’ said Biggles shortly.
‘No! I speak,’ gasped the prisoner desperately.
‘You’d be well advised to do so,’ Biggles told him grimly. ‘My patience is at an end. What is your nationality?’
‘No understand — nashnalty.’
‘Where do you come from?’
‘Me stay Singapore.’
‘Where did you come from before that?’
‘Manila.’
‘I see. Who is your master?’
‘He no name.’
‘Where is he?’
The man hesitated.
‘Come on!’
‘He on junk.’
‘Where is the junk?’
The prisoner’s eyes switched nervously to the porthole, as if he feared he might be overheard. ‘Junk he lay offside island—round headland,’ he whispered hoarsely.
Biggles half smiled at Sullivan at this piece of vital information. Then he looked back at the prisoner, who, he suspected, was a Malay Dyak with Chinese or Japanese blood in his veins. ‘What is the junk doing in this sea?’ he asked crisply.
The man screwed up his face. ‘Not know,’ he answered earnestly.
Biggles thought he was telling the truth and turned again to Sullivan. ‘I don’t think there’s much point in prolonging this interview,’ he said. ‘Have you any questions for him?’
‘No.’
‘All right. Take him away. Keep him in irons and under guard,’ Biggles told the Chief Petty Officer.
‘I don’t think we shall get any more information out of him,’ he continued, as the prisoner was marched out, ‘for the simple reason that he doesn’t know what it’s all about. I fancy he is just a deckhand sent over to listen because he knows a smattering of English. We shall do more good by having a closer look at this junk.’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed the naval officer promptly. ‘Shall we move off right away?’
Biggles pondered for a moment. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘If they hear us or see the ship moving they’ll know what we’re after and perhaps give us the slip. If it’s agreeable to you I’d rather put an armed party in the long-boat and try and take the junk that way. We should be able to creep along close to the shore—closer than you dare risk in the destroyer. In fact, we might get right up to the junk without being spotted.’
‘I think perhaps you’re right,’ agreed Sullivan. ‘How many men will you need?’
‘A score should be enough. Serve them out with cutlasses and pistols.’
‘Good enough. When will you start?’
‘Just as soon as you can detail a party and put the boat on the water.’
Sullivan moved towards the door. ‘Five minutes will be enough for that,’ he promised.
His time estimate was not far out, for inside ten minutes the boat was on the water creeping stealthily towards the shore. Biggles sat in the stern with Lovell, for Sullivan could not, of course, leave his ship. Ginger, who with some difficulty had persuaded Biggles to allow him to accompany the party, sat just in front. Following the policy of always leaving a pilot with the Nemesis, Algy, much to his disgust, had been left behind.
The air was still. In the pale light of a crescent moon the silhouette of the island was very beautiful, and as they crept along the deserted shore, occasionally catching the perfume of the flowering shrubs that backed the white sandy beach, Ginger was enchanted with the peace and loveliness of the whole setting, and more than half regretted the business on which they were engaged. He would have much preferred to play at Robinson Crusoe for a little while, for there were many things of interest, both in the water, where brightly coloured fish swam unafraid amongst pink and yellow coral, and on the shore, where everything that lived was new to him.
The sailors rowed without speaking, for conversation had been forbidden, and in the fairy-like surroundings a curious feeling crept over Ginger that he was dreaming. But when, presently, rounding a headland, the bare masts and ungainly hulk of a junk came into view against the deep purple sky, a thrill ran through him, and he sensed the tension of the moment in the quick intaking of breath of the men in front of him.
‘Easy all,’ said Biggles softly, and then, as the sailors rested their oars, he continued: ‘Take it quietly, everyone, until I give the word, then put your backs into it. The boarding party will avoid bloodshed if possible. I hope the enemy will surrender, but if we meet with resistance, which we may take as proof of guilt, then use your weapons. Bo’sun, you know more about these things than I do. Select two good men, and the instant you get aboard make for the captain’s quarters. It is important that he should not have a chance of destroying anything. That’s all. Now then, gently does it.’
As the boat moved forward over the smooth surface of the water, leaving only a phosphorescent ripple to mark her passage, Biggles leaned forward and spoke to Ginger. ‘You keep close to me,’ he said severely. ‘There’s no sense in you getting your head sliced off by a crazy Dyak armed with half a yard of razor-edged steel. The sailors will attend to the fighting, if there is any.’
They were not more than a hundred yards from the junk when a shrill cry warned them that they had been seen.
‘All right, my lads, let her go,’ roared Biggles, abandoning all attempt at concealment. ‘Junk ahoy!’
There was another shout. A firearm flashed and the missile richocheted off the water not far away. The deep breathing of the sailors told of the efforts they were making, and within a few seconds of the alarm the boat had run alongside the larger vessel. There was a mighty swirl as the oars backed water, and then what seemed to Ginger a moment’s confusion as the boarding party jumped to their feet and swarmed over the side, Biggles amongst them. There was a blinding flash and a deafening roar as a firearm exploded at point-blank range, and a sailor fell back into the boat, swearing fluently and clutching his shoulder. Simultaneously a clamour broke out above, exaggerated in its volume by the preceding silence—shouts and screams punctuated by thuds and occasionally shots.
Ginger could stand it no longer. Grabbing at the loose end of a trailing rope, he went up the side of the junk like a monkey and threw his leg over the rail. All he could see at first was a confused melee of running men, but presently he was able to make out that there was a certain amount of order about it, and that the sailors were driving the crew of the junk before them into the bows. One or two of the orientals had climbed into the rigging, and he saw another deliberately dive overboard. The men in the rigging rather worried him; he wondered if the sailors had overlooked them, and with his automatic in his hand he had stepped forward to warn them when
he saw Biggles leave the party and hurry towards the companionway, evidently with the idea of following the bo’sun below, assuming that he had carried out his orders and rushed for the captain’s quarters.
Ginger saw that Biggles would have to pass immediately below the men in the rigging, so he shouted a warning. ‘Watch out, Biggles —up above you!’ he yelled, and to emphasize his words he threw up his pistol and fired without taking any particular aim. He did not hit any of the men aloft—not that he expected to—but the shot may have saved Biggles, for with a crisp thud a knife buried itself in the planking near his feet.
He leapt aside, calling to the sailors as he did so. Two or three of them broke away from the party in the bows, and pointing their weapons upwards, induced the natives to come down. It marked the end of the resistance, which had only been half-hearted at the best, and Ginger, following Biggles below, was just in time to witness the last act of a tragedy.
In the corner of a large, well-furnished room, evidently the captain’s cabin, stood a modern steel safe with its door wide open. Below it, on the ground, lay a number of papers. Near by stood a small, dark-skinned man in blue uniform, covered by the revolvers of the two sailors who had been detailed by the bo’sun to accompany him. Such was the position as Biggles strode through the doorway with Ginger at his heels. But at that moment there was a muffled report. The dark-skinned man swayed for a moment, and then pitched forward on to his face.
The bo’sun, who had been kneeling near the safe collecting the papers, sprang to his feet.
‘Who did that?’ he cried.
‘The fool shot himself,’ answered one of the sailors.
The bo’sun looked at Biggles and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I didn’t think of him doing that, sir,’ he explained apologetically.
‘Couldn’t be helped,’ Biggles told him quietly. ‘Pick up those papers, will you, and collect anything that is left in the safe. Make a thorough search of the room and bring me any other papers you find. I shall be on deck.’ Then, turning, he saw Ginger. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘I told you to keep out of the way. Still, it doesn’t matter now; it’s all over by the look of it. Let’s get up on deck.’