Biggles and the Pirate Treasure

by W E Johns

  ‘Aye,’ acknowledged the man.

  ‘You’ve a son in the Air Force, I believe?’

  ‘Not now. He was.’

  ‘I served with him at one time, name of Bigglesworth,’ went on Biggles. ‘Happening to be passing I thought I’d look in to see how he was getting on.’

  ‘He’s doing fine,’ was the reply. ‘He’s no’ here, though. He’s awa’ South.’

  ‘Comes to see you sometimes, I hope?’ prompted Biggles.

  ‘Oh, aye. Comes up regular every month. Be up tonight, likely. Ses the heather calls him back.’

  ‘Not much for him to do here?’

  ‘Och, he likes walking fine. He walks half the nicht.’

  ‘Just to be in the heather?’

  ‘Aye. Soon as he’s here, off he goes to the Dubh Chtais.’

  ‘It’s a long way to come, just to walk on the heather, train fares being what they are,’ murmured Biggles.

  ‘No trains for Rod,’ said the old man. ‘He’s got a car of his own. Smart lad, is Rod.’

  ‘He always was smart,’ agreed Biggles, without enthusiasm. ‘Well, I won’t stop you working. I thought I’d just look in. It’s a fine day.’

  ‘Aye, a grand day.’

  Biggles went back to the car and drove on. ‘You know, this sort of business makes me sick,’ he told Ginger bitterly. ‘That old fellow has spent his life working. I’ll warrant he’s as straight as a gun barrel; yet here’s his son, who ought to be helping him, on the high road to jail. Well, the sooner he gets there the better. It may teach him sense. For the game he’s playing he’ll get six months. If he gets away with it he’ll try something more ambitious, and when he’s caught, go down for five years. What we— !’ He swung on to the verge to avoid a racy-looking sports car that came tearing down the road at a speed that could not have been necessary. ‘Get the number,’ he snapped.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ said Ginger. ‘That was McDew. I recognized him.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come for some more watches,’ murmured Biggles. ‘Tonight must be the night. We’d better go back a different way – we don’t want him to see us. Look up this place Dubh Chtais on the map. I expect it’ll be a fair walk across the moor.’

  Ginger unrolled the map. ‘Here we are,’ he said, pointing. ‘Right in the middle of nowhere. No tracks, nothing. Some flat ground, judging from the contours.’

  ‘We’ll take a compass bearing on it,’ asserted Biggles. ‘We’d better start early, too. From what I saw from up topsides this is no place to get lost.’

  He drove on.

  At ten o’clock the moon crept up over the distant hills to reveal a scene that was heart-chilling in its utter loneliness. On all sides the moor rolled away to rounded contours, silent, without movement, without a spark of light anywhere. Only in one place was the ground level, and that for a short distance, where the heather gave way to yellow star-grass. On one side of it ran the banks of black peat that gave the place its local name. In the cover thus provided Biggles and Ginger sat gazing into the brooding gloom, waiting, watching.

  For an hour nothing happened. Then a slight sound made Ginger stiffen.

  But it was only a roe deer. Near them it stopped to stare back in the direction whence it had come; then it must have caught their taint, for it went off at a gallop.

  ‘Quiet,’ breathed Biggles. ‘Someone must have disturbed that beast.’

  Soon afterwards a shadowy figure appeared, walking slowly towards the middle of the level area, where presently it merged again into the darkness.

  Another wait followed, and then softly through the still air came the sound that told Ginger that their vigil had not been in vain. It was the drone of an aircraft, either distant or flying high. A light appeared on the plain. Three times a torch was flashed upwards.

  Immediately the drone of the aircraft died, to be followed presently by a curious swishing sound that puzzled Ginger until Biggles whispered, ‘Helicopter.’

  The light on the plain continued to flash at intervals as the aircraft drew nearer. In making its landing the machine passed low over the heads of the watchers, to settle with hardly any forward speed fifty yards farther on.

  ‘Come on,’ said Biggles softly. ‘This is our cue. If the pilot tries to get off shoot at the blades of his rotor.’ They walked forward briskly, and so engrossed were the pilot and his accomplice that they were within speaking distance before they were noticed.

  McDew, carrying a bag, promptly bolted. Biggles called him by name, telling him that running would do him no good. However, McDew ran on and was soon lost to sight in the darkness.

  Meanwhile, Ginger was occupied with the helicopter. The pilot had jumped into his seat and revved up his engine; but Ginger’s automatic spat, and at the third shot splinters flew as the bullet shattered one of the wooden rotor blades. After that there could be no escape by air. Indeed, the pilot had to throttle back, for the racing engine was threatening to tear itself off its bearers.

  ‘Come out of that,’ ordered Biggles curtly. ‘You can’t get away. Don’t try anything silly. We’re armed.’

  The engine died, and a man got down, slowly, demanding in a loud voice, with a foreign accent, to be told the meaning of the outrage.

  ‘Quit bluffing,’ said Biggles grimly. ‘We know your game. You’re through with it.’

  Ginger snapped handcuffs on the man’s wrists.

  ‘Start walking,’ ordered Biggles. ‘We’ve a long way to go.’

  ‘I have nothing in my machine — nothing!’ cried the prisoner hysterically. ‘What have I done? I bring nothing. Look and see.’

  ‘Where are the watches?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘Watches? I have no watches. Look for yourself.’

  ‘In that case they must be in the bag your friend was carrying,’ said Biggles evenly. ‘He will, no doubt, try to get to London with them. Well, he won’t get far. The number of his car is known, and police are waiting for it on every road leading south. It looks as if they’ll catch him with more watches than he will need for some time — the sort of watches that aren’t easy to explain.’

  As a matter of fact, that is just what happened.

  [Back to Contents]

  THE CASE OF THE POISONED CROPS

  ‘I want you to go to Africa,’ Air Commodore Raymond, of the Special Air Section at Scotland Yard, told his chief operational pilot, Air Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth. ‘There’s been nothing about it in the papers yet, but the unrest among certain tribes on the borders of the Kikuyu country has taken a turn for the worse; and in view of what’s happening there it isn’t surprising.’

  ‘Has this anything to do with Mau-Mau terrorism?’

  ‘It could be — indirectly. The scheme is too ingenious, and the operation of it too technical, for the average native mind. But whoever is behind it is no friend of ours, and is obviously trying to aggravate the Mau-Mau trouble by spreading it to other districts.’

  ‘What exactly is happening?’

  ‘Someone is now hitting the wretched native on his most vulnerable spot — his food supply. Not only are his crops being destroyed but the very ground on which they grow is being reduced to a wilderness. The government of course will be blamed for this by everyone who happens not to like us. It’s a queer business, and may hook up with a case of pilfering that occurred not long ago. Help yourself to a cigarette and I’ll tell you about it.

  ‘As you know,’ continued the Air Commodore, ‘one of the plagues of Africa is the locust, which in a few hours can turn a verdant landscape into a howling desert. The pest has to a certain extent been checked, but never eradicated, by the use of flame guns on the ground and the spraying of poison on the swarms from the air. It was realized that what really was needed was an insecticide of sufficient strength to kill the pests even though it was discharged from a spray gun at a considerable altitude. This would enable a single machine to deal quickly with a big swarm, which might cover some
hundreds of square miles. One of the big chemical firms undertook the job, and soon produced the very thing that was needed. But ether was a snag. The stuff, which was named Vegicide, certainly killed the locusts, but it also killed everything else, by which I mean the vegetation. In fact, it poisoned the ground, so that nothing would grow in it for some time. However, this difficulty was not insuperable. The swarm could be sprayed from the air when it was passing over ground already sterile, and as you know, there’s plenty of that in North Central Africa. That would save the crops farther south. Twelve ten-gallon drums of Vegicide were therefore produced to give it a trial. It was shipped to Nairobi via Mombasa. Now here is a point. Because the stuff was dangerous to handle on account of its poisonous properties, to say nothing of it being highly inflammable, to discourage anyone from tinkering with it the drums were painted red, with the label, “Explosive. Stow away from engines.” This may have defeated our object, for four drums were stolen from the dock at Mombasa, the thief supposing, perhaps, that the contents were alcohol, or methylated spirit, or something of that nature. Be that as it may, the real purpose of the stuff was soon discovered, and as it is now being used is doing far more harm than the locusts. It is destroying the natives’ crops, presumably in the hope of starving them into a state of rebellion. The four drums that were taken would destroy an immense tract of ground. Worse, by analysing a sample, more could be produced.’

  ‘Sounds nasty,’ murmured Biggles. ‘And you’ve no idea who’s playing this dirty game?’

  ‘None at all. But we now have what might turn out to be a clue that could put us on the track of those responsible. Shortly after the Vegicide was found to be missing, a curious message, sent out by an aircraft, came over the air. It was picked up by several stations.

  A weak voice appealed to anyone British to go to the airfield at Klookerstein. The voice became weaker and faded to silence. Klookerstein, by the way, is an old airstrip in North Central Africa, miles from anywhere. A plane was flown out but could discover nothing wrong.’

  ‘Have you learned who sent the signal?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s this airfield doing there, anyway?’

  ‘By a strange coincidence it’s being used as an experimental base by people investigating methods of destroying the locust plague. The man in charge is an engineer named de Goot. He has with him a chemist, and a doctor named Frankl who has made a study of the migration of insects. The place is, in fact, on the edge of the locust belt. De Goot, apparently, is working on a power-driven spray gun, out of which he reckons to make a lot of money. He may be genuine, but this engineering job might, of course, be a cover for other activities. I don’t overlook that. He has two old Moths which he probably bought cheaply.’

  ‘Does he fly them himself?’

  ‘I think so, but most of his flying has been done by a South African named Harley.’

  ‘Felix Harley, by any chance?’

  ‘That’s the man. Know him?’

  ‘I knew him in the war. Good chap. There’s nothing phoney about him, anyhow. What had he to say?’

  ‘He couldn’t say anything, for the simple reason he wasn’t there. He’s disappeared.’

  ‘In what circumstances?’

  ‘According to de Goot he pinched the pay-roll and bolted, taking one of the planes — a Gipsy Moth, to be specific.’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘That doesn’t sound like the man I knew.’

  ‘The police, without evidence, could hardly call de Goot a liar.’

  ‘I suppose not. Was a search made for Harley? He might have had a forced landing.’

  The Air Commodore shrugged. ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘He might have been the pilot who sent out that mysterious signal — since you say you haven’t been able to find out who did.’

  ‘The same thought struck me. That’s why I think it would be a good thing if you went out and had a look round.’

  ‘How far is this airfield from the district where the crops have been destroyed?’

  ‘About a hundred miles.’

  ‘Have you any other gen about these people at Klookerstein?’

  ‘Practically none. De Goot, from all accounts, is a taciturn sort of fellow.’

  ‘I’ll go and have a look at him,’ promised Biggles. ‘If he doesn’t like us he’ll soon show it: and the man who is killing the natives’ crops must hate us, for it’s hard to see any other motive than to cause us more trouble in Africa than we have already. I’ll get along.’

  Two aircraft, a Proctor and an Auster, droned at a sober speed across the weary waste of Africa that lies northeast of Kenya. In the Proctor were Biggles and Ginger: in the Auster, Algy and Bertie. Both machines, modified for police work, were equipped with long range tanks and high frequency radio telephony. They were, in fact, two of the machines that had been used in the search for the fanatical negro who had called himself The Black Elephant.1

  Biggles’s plan, if it could be called a plan, was to fly direct to Klookerstein in the Proctor and begin his enquiries there. If the people were willing to co-operate, so well and good. If they were not, then they would lay themselves open to suspicion. Algy and Bertie, in the slow-flying Auster, were to search the area for signs of the missing pilot Harley.

  Biggles thought they had a reasonable chance of finding him, for if Harley had been sufficiently badly hurt to die or faint in his cockpit, assuming that it was he who had sent out the strange message, he could not have flown far from his base. As things turned out this surmise proved to be correct.

  ‘All right. Carry on,’ Biggles told Algy over the radio when they were within fifty miles of the objective. ‘Concentrate on the eastern side. Harley would head towards the nearest settlements, not away from them, if he was hurt. I’ll pick you up later if you don’t hear from me.’

  The Auster turned away to begin its search. The Proctor went on, and a quarter of an hour later put down its wheels on the sun-dried grass of the Klookerstein airstrip, its arrival being watched by several men, both black and white, from the entrance of a canvas hangar that still showed the brown and green of war-time camouflage. Inside the hangar Ginger could just make out the shape of a Puss Moth. There were one or two other tents, smaller ones, and a native compound. A wind-stocking hung limply from a pole.

  None of the watchers moved as the Proctor taxied up and its crew got down. They all stood watching, and from their attitudes Ginger sensed at once an atmosphere of guarded hostility — or, at least, it was clear that the Proctor was not welcome.

  As he walked up, Biggles gave no indication that he was aware of anything unusual. Nor did his attitude change when he was greeted with a surly: ‘If you’re looking for petrol we’ve none to spare.’

  ‘As it happens I’m not looking for petrol,’ answered Biggles evenly. ‘I’m looking for a friend of mine named Harley.’

  ‘He’s gone,’ was the curt reply.

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘No, I wish I did. He took one of my machines, and the pay-roll.’

  Biggles looked at the spokesman. ‘Are you by any chance Mr. de Goot?’

  ‘General de Goot.’

  ‘Sorry. You don’t mind if we stretch our legs for a little while?’

  De Goot hesitated. ‘Don’t make it too long. We’ve just had word that a big locust swarm is heading south and we plan to intercept it. That’s what we’re here for.’

  Ginger, his eyes active, strolled on a little way, ostensibly to get out of the glare of the sun, but really, as he had been instructed by Biggles, to note anything of interest. He did not fail to notice that he was followed by several spear-armed natives.

  There were other items of interest, too. Conspicuous, so conspicuous that Biggles must have seen them, were several small areas of blackened grass, as if fires had been lighted on those particular spots. But there was no wood ash. Equally conspicuous were four black-painted drums. In the ordinary way he would have taken them for oil drums. T
he ground under each was black. Walking slowly past them he noticed places where they had been scratched, or knocked. Under the black the colour was red. This was all he really needed to know, for there was no doubt in his mind as to what the drums contained, or had contained.

  On his way back his questing eyes spotted something else. Close by was a tamarisk tree. A scar showed white on the trunk. Something had struck it horizontally, tearing off a piece of bark. The only thing he could think of likely to make such a mark was a bullet. He had seen bullet marks on trees before. It looked as if there had been shooting at Klookerstein. It was from about this spot, he decided, that Harley had made his attempt to escape.

  Strolling back to rejoin Biggles he became aware that relations had disimproved, for he heard de Goot say: ‘We want no interfering Britishers here.’

  Replied Biggles calmly: ‘We’ll go when we’re ready. I’ve come some way to find Harley. Why didn’t you go and look for him yourself — or report him to the police?’

  There was no answer to this question. It was evident that de Goot and his companions were impatient for them to go. No hospitality was offered. On the contrary, it was evident from the expressions on the faces of everyone that if departure was long delayed the sullen truce would break down.

  Biggles no doubt realized this and decided to avoid open conflict, for he said, casually: ‘Oh well, we’ll get along,’ and turned towards the Proctor. Ginger followed him, feeling more than slightly uncomfortable, half expecting to feel the impact of a spear, or a bullet, in his back. However, nothing of the sort happened, and the Proctor took off still watched by hostile eyes from the hangar.

  As soon as they were in the air Ginger reported what he had seen.

  ‘Good work,’ complimented Biggles. ‘I haven’t the slightest doubt that these are the people we’re looking for. I never saw a nastier-looking lot. An analysis of the contents of one of those drums would be all the evidence required to put them out of business; but we should have been asking for it had we tried to take one. There were too many of them. See if you can contact Algy.’