Biggles In Australia
Page 3
It may have been this atmosphere that prevented Ginger from sleeping. Or it may have been the beauty or the strangeness of the scene. Sitting up on the warm sand he gazed at it, a little annoyed by this unusual wakefulness, particularly as Biggles was already fast asleep beside him. Certainly there was no thought of danger in his head.
In deep meditation he watched a broad ripple surge in through the opening in the reef. It travelled faster and came farther than most of them — the result, he supposed, of an extra big wave. Another followed. There seemed to be something odd about the ripple. Normally the ripples started at once to broaden, and losing their impetus died before they were half-way to the beach. But these particular ripples neither died nor broadened. They maintained a clearly defined arrow-head shape almost to the beach, as if made by an invisible boat. Yet a third of these unnatural ripples came in to set the reflected moonbeams flashing. Then a possible solution struck him. The disturbance could, he thought, be caused by turtles, coming ashore, as is their habit, to lay their eggs in the sand.
He watched for a time, but as there was no further development he lay back, with his head on his hands, to court the sleep without which the following day would find him dull and hot-eyed. But it was no use, and he realized that he had reached that state of wakefulness that made his brain ever more alert. There was only one thing to do, he decided, and that was make a break of some sort. A short walk on the beach might do it.
Sitting up he glanced along the sand, and saw at once that one of the turtles had come ashore. Another was just emerging from the water. Then a frown creased his forehead. These things weren’t turtles. They were too big. They were the wrong shape. They looked more like large barrels, tapering at one end. With no other sensation than curiosity he watched, his proposed walk forgotten. He kept still for fear of alarming the creatures and sending them back into the sea before he could identify them.
A third beast now appeared, and it may have been the spider-like way it moved that gave him his first twinge of uneasiness. Whatever the things were, he decided, they were certainly not turtles. No turtle could make a sudden sideways dart. He didn’t like the idea of waking Biggles, but when one of the beasts began moving furtively towards them he thought it time he did so. Putting a hand on Biggles’s shoulder he gave him a slight shake.
‘What is it?’ asked Biggles instantly.
‘I don’t know; but I think you’d better have a look at these things,’ answered Ginger. ‘I don’t like the look of ‘em. They came in through the break in the reef — made a big ripple, too.’
Biggles sat up. He looked. He looked for some time without speaking. But when, suddenly, one of the beasts raised itself up and flung out a long snake-like tentacle at something higher up the beach, he not only spoke, but moved fast. ‘By thunder!’ he exclaimed tersely. ‘They’re decapods. I don’t know much about the ugly brutes but I believe they’re dangerous. If they did decide to come for us we wouldn’t have much chance. We’d better get into the machine.’
Ginger wasted no time in splashing through the shallow water to the aircraft, which was afloat on about three feet of water ten or twelve yards from the beach. Turning to look back from the cabin door after Biggles had got in he saw one of the beasts moving swiftly, with a sinister gliding motion, towards the place where they had been. In the bright moonlight he could now see tentacles plainly, two long ones, not less than twenty feet in length, held out in front, and a tangle of smaller ones. For the first time he realized too, the bulk of the creature’s body. Feeling somewhat shaken he shut the door hurriedly. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked Biggles.
‘Do? Nothing. They’re not likely to come in here. I’m going to sleep.’ With that Biggles stretched himself out on the floor.
Ginger didn’t feel much like going to sleep; but, naturally, any fears he may have had were allayed by Biggles’s casual manner. From which it will be gathered that both of them were in blissful ignorance of the nature of the giant devil-fish, from which natives, who will attack an octopus or shark in its element with a knife, fly in terror.
Ginger had just fetched his mattress with the object of inflating it and trying to get some sleep when the aircraft gave a slight lurch. A flying boat rests very lightly on the water and it takes very little to make it move. A ripple or a gust of wind will do that. But, as Ginger knew well enough, a flying boat doesn’t move on calm water of its own accord. He was pondering this strange occurrence when the machine took on a slight list, and instead of recovering remained in that position. This being beyond his understanding he dropped the mattress, and walking through the forward bulkhead door into the cockpit, looked for an explanation. It did not take him long to find it. With its great tentacles over the bows of the machine a giant squid was raising itself out of the water. Even as Ginger stared at a flat luminous eye the size of a tea plate the aircraft heeled over still further under the weight of the beast hanging on one side of it.
Biggles’s voice came from the cabin. ‘What are you playing at? Why don’t you keep still and get some sleep?’
Ginger swayed aft. In a thin, unnatural voice, he said: ‘It wasn’t me. It’s one of those things. It’s hanging on the side, as if it’s trying to turn us over.’
Biggles was on his feet in an instant, only to stagger as the machine took on a list of forty-five degrees. ‘If that thing gets hold of a wing it’s liable to tear it off from the root,’ he said crisply. ‘Can you see the thing from the cockpit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Load the rifle and bring it to me while I have a dekko.’ Biggles went forward. He looked, and, of course, saw what Ginger had seen, except that the beast was clear of the water, hanging across the bows. ‘The rifle —quick,’ he snapped.
Ginger moved fast. He loaded the rifle and handed it to Biggles. ‘Safety catch is on,’ he warned.
Very slowly Biggles adjusted his position and brought the rifle to his shoulder. Ginger, nearly sick with loathing and horror, could only watch, his heart behaving oddly. That one awful, cold, expressionless eye seemed to fascinate him, and at the same time take the strength out of his limbs.
The rifle crashed. Simultaneously the eye disappeared, as if it had been an electric lamp switched off. The aircraft righted itself with a jerk, nearly throwing Ginger off his feet.
Then, to a great noise of splashing it began to rock, while every now and then something thudded against the hull, the keel, or some other part of the machine.
Clinging to the bulkhead door Ginger stared at Biggles aghast. ‘It’ll smash us to pieces,’ he gasped.
‘There’s nothing more I can do,’ replied Biggles. ‘The thing’s in the water. I don’t know what it takes to kill these beasts, but as I aimed at the eye the bullet must have gone through its brain — if it’s got one. This lashing may be its dying convulsions. I’m not going out to see, and perhaps be knocked overboard by one of those threshing tentacles.’
The rocking became less violent, and going to a side window Ginger saw the reason. Twenty yards from the plane and moving away from it was an area of water being churned into foam. More than that, the side of the lagoon nearest to them appeared to have come to life, with ripples racing in all directions and moonlight dancing on the turbulence. Ginger could even see phosphorescent flashes under the water.
‘I think other fish, knowing the brute’s in its death throes, are rolling up for the feast,’ came Biggles’s voice from the next window. ‘In the sea everything eats everything else.’
‘I hope the thing hasn’t done any damage,’ muttered Ginger.
‘I don’t think so. We’ll see presently. Fortunately it tried to come aboard by the bows. Had it tried to pull itself up on a wing something would certainly have been broken.’
‘It must have seen us come aboard, and followed.’
‘Possibly. Or it may have taken the aircraft for a new sort of bird, or fish.’
‘And to think we were bathing in that water this afternoon,’ Ginger shuddere
d.
‘I doubt if the things were here then. I’d say they live in the deep water on the outer side of the reef, but come in at night to play about or look for food — land crabs, for instance.’
‘I shall think twice before I try sleeping on any more beaches in this part of the world,’ declared Ginger, warmly.
‘It looks as if we shall have to swat up our natural history before we start on any more jaunts of this sort,’ averred Biggles. ‘Matter of fact I’ve heard of these big brutes but I’ve never seen one before. We must have struck a colony of ‘em. I once had a spot of bother with a big octopus. That was bad enough. I’ve always been more concerned about sharks, no doubt because they are always around in tropic waters. But I think it’s safe now for us to have a look round for any damage.’
The churning had stopped. In fact, the lagoon had settled down, although tiny wavelets still ran up and down the beach. An examination, as far as this was possible in moonlight from the aircraft itself, revealed no sign of damage beyond some peeling of the paint on the bows, caused, it was assumed, by the great squid’s suckers.
‘Now, perhaps, we’ll be allowed to get a little sleep,’ said Biggles irritably. ‘I don’t think those things will trouble us any more tonight.
I can see none on the beach, anyway. The danger might be sharks, brought in by the smell of blood — if those horrors have blood. Keep clear of the water.’
‘You needn’t tell me to do that,’ returned Ginger, caustically.
Curiously, whereas before the disturbance he had been unable to sleep, he now dropped off, and when he awoke the sun was pouring an opalescent glaze, lovely to watch, on the ocean. Looking at the lagoon, once more clear and placid, he found it hard to believe that the events of the night were not an evil dream. ‘Are you thinking of going ashore again?’ he asked Biggles, who was pumping up the Primus.
‘There seems to be no point in it. Had there been anything to see we should have seen it.’
‘There’s just one thing,’ returned Ginger. ‘As we came in I noticed some white spots that puzzled me. I saw some on another island, too. Thinking it over it struck me that they might be pieces of paper. I can’t think of anything else they could be.’
‘You can soon settle that,’ answered Biggles. ‘Slip ashore while I’m making the tea. Five minutes should be enough.’
‘Okay,’ agreed Ginger.
It is, perhaps, unnecessary to say that he had a good look at the water before he stepped into it. However, seeing nothing he splashed quickly to the beach and made for the nearest of the objects that had aroused his curiosity. Approaching it, he saw that he had been right. He picked up a torn piece of newspaper, printed in German. The next piece was the same, crumpled and stained with salt water. Topping the ridge of the atoll, which brought him facing a shingle beach on which the ocean rollers thundered, he saw there was more waste paper than he had supposed, for here it was less noticeable. First he picked up a typed list of what appeared to be names and addresses. It looked as if it had come adrift from a folio. His next find gave him a shock. All along the high water mark, mixed up with the usual medley of palm fronds, seaweed and shells, were Australian pound notes. He did not stop to collect them all, but picking up a few he hastened back to the aircraft. ‘I think we’ve struck something,’ he told Biggles briskly. ‘Take a look at these.’
Biggles took the papers and studied them while Ginger poured himself a cup of tea and sat back to await his verdict.
‘There’s nothing to show what ship these came from,’ said Biggles after a while. ‘Other ships beside the Taube were lost in the hurricane, and these notes may have come from any one of them.’
‘But an Australian pearling lugger wouldn’t be likely to carry German newspapers.’
‘You’re right there,’ agreed Biggles. ‘That, I own, is significant.’
‘What is that list?’
‘Names and addresses — not in any particular town but several. Very odd. They may mean nothing to us, but if they do, they might mean a lot. The question is, how did these papers get here? There’s no sign of a wreck, and these pieces of newspapers couldn’t have been in the water very long or they’d have disintegrated.’
‘They could have been blown here by the wind.’
‘Yes. And on the face of a hundred mile an hour gale they might have travelled a long way. If we’re right they must have come from the northerly quadrant.’
‘It was on an island north-west of here that I saw what I realize now must have been bits of paper. What about this money? Would a lugger be likely to pay its crew afloat? If not, why take a lot of money to sea? There’s nowhere to spend it.’
‘I was thinking on the same lines,’ answered Biggles thoughtfully. ‘We’ll go back to that island where you saw the paper. That should give us a direct line on the place this stuff started from. If we find nothing there of interest we’ll carry on, following the line. It’ll take us farther out to sea than I had reckoned to explore; but then, we’ve only von Stalhein’s word that the party was on an island for three weeks. They could have been at sea longer than they pretended. Get the anchor up and we’ll press on as far as we dare. We shall soon have to go to Broome for petrol.’
In a few minutes the Otter was in the air, on the short run back to the last island it had surveyed without landing.
Reaching it, Biggles circled low, twice. ‘No sign of a wreck,’ he observed. ‘Surely there must be one somewhere. I don’t think I’ll waste time landing here. We’ll push on over fresh ground and see if that produces anything.’
Twenty minutes later, by which time he was beginning to look more frequently at his petrol gauge, an island of some size crept up over the horizon. Ginger estimated it to be one of the seldom visited Mandeville Group. Even before they reached it they saw that the beach was strewn with wreckage.
‘This looks more like it,’ remarked Biggles, with satisfaction in his voice. ‘Not much of a lagoon, but the water looks calm enough inside that reef.’
Presently, after following the usual procedure, the Otter rocked gently to a standstill within a few yards of the debris-strewn beach on the sheltered side of the island. It was one of the largest they had visited, being nearly two miles long, about a quarter of a mile wide at the widest part, and better furnished with vegetation than most. There were several stands of coconut palms, although, like the others they had seen, they had suffered severely from the willie-willie.
Finding a bare patch of sand Biggles lowered his wheels and crawled up on to it, so that they could step out onto dry ground. ‘I’ll tell you something right away,’ he said confidently. ‘This stuff represents more than one wreck.’ He pointed. ‘That broken mast with a bit of sail still wrapped round it was never part of a deep sea ship. The mast, and those splintered spars, could have been on a lugger. That reef may have been the one von Stalhein’s vessel struck, and broke up, in which case I imagine most of it would go down in the deep water on the far side. I suppose it wouldn’t be remarkable if a lugger, caught in the same storm, fell foul of the same island. But let’s get busy. We’ve plenty to do.’
The search began; not for any particular object, but for anything that might indicate the purpose of von Stalhein and his party in Australian waters. At least, Biggles affirmed, they would almost certainly come upon something carrying the names of the vessels that had been cast away.
In this, however, they were to be disappointed.
CHAPTER IV
Island Without a Name
The first sign of tragedy lay on the beach. It was a skeleton. A few shreds of material still clung to it, but gave no clue to the nationality of the dead seaman. Ginger questioned whether it could be a casualty of the last willie-willie, or of a previous one.
‘I’d say the last,’ replied Biggies. ‘I imagine the gulls would soon make short work of a body, human or otherwise. Besides, when the storm was actually on, wind and waves would have broken up a skeleton had it been lying here then.’
‘Confidential,’ translated Biggles. ‘Evidently a confidential file. Pity the contents have gone. Anyway, it tells us that a German ship, carrying secret papers, was wrecked here, or near here.’
‘That list of addresses I picked up could have come from that file,’ said Ginger. ‘The size is the same.’
‘Could be,’ conceded Biggles. ‘A file is only used normally to hold several papers, so I suspect that sheet of addresses wasn’t the only one. I noticed that of the addresses shown there wasn’t one in Sydney or Melbourne. It seems hardly likely that places of that size would be omitted from a complete list, from which I conclude they occurred on pages other than the one we have. But we’ll talk about that later. I think we can take it that von Stalhein’s story of being shipwrecked was substantially true. But we assumed that already. His party wouldn’t have put to sea in an open boat as a matter of choice. It’s queer there’s nothing with a name on. I have a feeling that anything of that nature was deliberately destroyed. A wooden object, or a cork lifebelt, could easily have been burnt. We’ve seen the marks of at least one good bonfire. What’s this thing?’
A handle stuck up at an angle from the sand. He took hold of it and pulled. The object to which it was attached emerged. He shook the sand from it, and after a brief inspection the face that he turned to Ginger wore a curious smile. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ he said softly. ‘No lugger would be likely to carry that.’
‘A Geiger Counter,’1 breathed Ginger.
‘It looks as if von Stalhein may have had some scientists with him; but that isn’t to say they were interested in fish. At first sight it looks as if we may have discovered the purpose of that ship in these waters.’