Biggles In Australia

by W E Johns

  ‘Okay,’ agreed Bill.

  They went ashore, but as Biggles had feared, a search of some three hours yielded not a single item of interest. Bill tramped the island from end to end looking for signs of digging, still hoping to find the body of the murdered man; but in the end, to his annoyance, he had to give it up.

  ‘I’m afraid von Stalhein made a clean sweep while he was here,’ remarked Biggles, as they returned to the aircraft and snatched a makeshift lunch.

  ‘There’s still one piece of evidence he may find hard to explain,’ growled Bill.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The boat. You say it’s still on Eighty Mile Beach. How’s he going to account for coming ashore in a boat belonging to Wada’s lugger? Several witnesses could describe the boat, and that should be good enough.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Biggles. ‘That would certainly take a lot of explaining.’

  ‘I ought to have a look at it. Just where is it?’

  ‘Roughly about sixty miles south of Roebuck Bay. If you like, to save you a journey, we could take it in on the run home. It wouldn’t be far out of our way.’

  ‘That’d suit me fine,’ declared Bill. ‘Save a lot of time and trouble.’

  ‘All right. If we’ve finished we might as well press on.’

  Biggles took the same course as before to the mainland, and again, flying low, cruised up the Beach. But even while he was still short of the position of the boat he was staring hard at it. ‘Something’s happened down there,’ observed Ginger.

  ‘So I see,’ returned Biggles, shortly.

  ‘Looks as if someone’s had a fire.’

  Answered Biggles, in a curious voice: ‘It also looks as if another plane has landed since we were here. I can see two sets of wheel tracks and only one of them is mine — the wide, heavy one. There are more footmarks, too, than we made.’

  ‘The boat isn’t there!’

  ‘The black spot marks the place where it was. Someone’s had a bonfire, and he didn’t light it to keep himself warm. Recently, too. It’s still smouldering.’

  ‘What’s that you’re saying?’ put in Bill, from behind.

  ‘The boat’s gone. Someone has beaten us to it,’ replied Biggles.

  For a moment Bill was shocked to silence. Then he swore softly.

  ‘Now you see the sort of people we’re up against,’ Biggles told him, as he glided in to land. ‘They leave nothing to chance.’

  He put the machine down and taxied up to the still smouldering embers — all that remained of the boat. They got out and looked at it.

  ‘The job was done this morning,’ muttered Bill, chagrined. ‘And it wasn’t done by von Stalhein — unless he’s so clever he can be in two places at once.’

  ‘No. He went to the island. Someone came here in a plane — a light plane. It may not matter much, now that von Stalhein knows we’re on the job, but whoever did this would see that another plane had been here. We also know they’ve got a plane. I must confess I’m a bit puzzled by this sudden rush to clean up every scrap of evidence. It’s almost as if they knew I was on my way here. That could be so, of course. The enemy has spies everywhere, and just as I know von Stalhein’s methods, he knows mine. Maybe that photo did it. Von Stalhein would realize that once it got into the papers he would almost certainly be spotted by our Intelligence people — as did, in fact, happen — and take steps accordingly. Well, it’s not much use standing here staring at the ashes. I’m sorry, Bill, but I’m afraid your last piece of concrete evidence has gone up in smoke.’

  Bill, who had been on his hands and knees studying the footmarks, stood up. ‘There were three of ‘em in the party that came here,’ he announced. ‘Pity I didn’t bring my tracker along, or I could have told you more about ‘em.’

  ‘You might measure the width of their wheel track while you’re at it,’ requested Biggles. ‘As you know people by the size of their feet, I can sometimes name a plane by the span of its undercart.’

  Bill obliged. ‘Six foot, dead,’ he said.

  ‘Auster,’ murmured Ginger.

  ‘Could have been,’ agreed Biggles. ‘That would have the accommodation, but I’m not so sure about the endurance range. It must have come from a distance.’

  ‘The range of the new Auster, if I remember right, is six hundred miles,’ stated Ginger. ‘I know that isn’t far as distances go here, but there was nothing to stop it from topping up its tanks at any airfield along the coast. It might even be doing that at Broome, at this moment.’

  ‘True enough,’ conceded Biggles. ‘We’ll check up on that. If we knew where it refuelled, assuming it did, we should get a line on the direction it came from. If it didn’t refuel then it can’t be far away — unless it has a private petrol dump. Is there anything more you want to do here, Bill?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then we might as well get along.’

  They took their places in the Otter and headed for Broome.

  CHAPTER VII

  Outlook Vague

  On arrival at Broome it was soon ascertained that no aircraft had refuelled there that day; but there was a message waiting for them. It was from Algy, to say he had arrived at Darwin, and had urgent news which, had he not turned up, West would have forwarded.

  ‘Which is another way of saying that West has learnt something,’ remarked Biggles. ‘We’ll push right on, Bill, if it’s all the same to you. We should just make the trip in daylight.’

  ‘What about this light plane? Would you like me to check up along the coast to find out if a strange machine picked up petrol anywhere?’

  ‘I’d be obliged if you’d do that,’ replied Biggles. ‘The information would be useful, whether the answer is yes or no. If it did, we should know which way it was travelling, and perhaps pick up some details about who was in it. If it didn’t, then we should know that it’s based no great distance away.’

  That concluded immediate affairs at Broome. Telling Bill that he would let him know any developments that concerned him, and asking him to send a signal to Darwin to let Algy know he was on his way, Biggles took off again on the six hundred mile run to the northern air terminal.

  ‘If Algy’s news is from West I can only think that West must have seen, or heard from, Alston,’ he opined — correctly, as it transpired. ‘It’s a relief to know the Halifax is all right again because it begins to look as if we shall need it. At least, I assume it’s all right. Algy wouldn’t be such a fool as to start across the Timor Sea with a doubtful engine.’

  The run was made without incident, and from the air, in the rosy glow of the setting sun, the Halifax could be seen parked beyond the end hangar with Algy and Bertie standing beside it.

  Biggles landed, taxied up alongside, switched off and jumped down, Ginger following. ‘Everything all right now?’ was his greeting.

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Algy. ‘The trouble wasn’t serious but I didn’t feel like taking chances. West tells me you got my message. Any news?’

  ‘Plenty,’ returned Biggles. ‘But let’s have yours first; then we’ll give you ours. We needn’t stand here. With the weather as it is the machines might as well stay where they are for the night. Let’s go over to the canteen. I’ve been on the go since daylight and I could drink a bucket of tea.’

  In the corner of the canteen, almost deserted at an hour when there were no arrivals or departures of aircraft, Algy explained why he had sent the urgent signal to Broome. The news, as Biggles had predicted, emanated from West. Briefly, it was this. Alston had arrived unexpectedly at Darwin the previous day, flying one of the regular services. He had spent the night there and then gone back to Brisbane, leaving before the Halifax had arrived; for which reason, of course, Algy hadn’t spoken to him personally. However, Alston had given some information to West, who had passed it on.

  ‘Is West on duty now?’ put in Biggles.

  ‘No. He’s on night duty tonight. Comes on at ten.’

  ‘I see. Carry on.’

  Al
gy resumed. It appeared that Alston had seen a man named Smith on the airfield at Cloncurry some days earlier, in the process of buying a second-hand aircraft that had been on offer there. Was it by any chance an Auster?’ inquired Biggles.

  Algy looked astonished. ‘Yes. An Auster Autocrat. How did you know?’

  Biggles smiled faintly. ‘We’ve seen its footprints in the sand. Go ahead.’

  Algy concluded his narrative. The Auster’s registration was VH-NZZ. With Smith had been a younger man, a qualified pilot who had taken the machine up on a trial run. His name, according to the transfer papers, was Cozens. Alston didn’t know him. In fact, he’d never seen or heard of him, although he thought he knew all the professional pilots in the country. When Alston, who was out on a job, returned to Cloncurry, the Auster had gone; no one knew where. Smith had paid for the machine and Cozens had flown it off, taking Smith with him. That was all.

  Biggles tapped a cigarette on the back of his hand. ‘So the gang has decided to get mobile,’ he observed.

  ‘Who’s this fellow Smith, anyway?’ inquired Algy. ‘I’m in the dark. How did he suddenly pop into the picture?’

  Biggles answered: ‘Smith is the name — or more probably the assumed name — of the chap who chartered the aircraft that collected von Stalhein and his pals from here when they disappeared. He was already in Australia and may turn out to be the big noise. Now he’s bought an aircraft, which will save him using public transport.’

  ‘As we know its registration there should be no difficulty in locating it.’

  ‘Maybe not — always supposing it stays on public airfields,’ agreed Biggles. ‘But short of tearing round the continent ourselves looking for it how are we going to find out where it is? To call in the police, or the civil aviation authorities, would mean explanations and start the sort of hue and cry I’m anxious to avoid. This self-enforced security is really our big handicap. I mean, you couldn’t have anything like an official search without von Stalhein getting to hear of it — and he’d know just what to do about that. But I’d better tell you and Bertie what has happened since we came here or we shall be talking at cross purposes. Things have moved faster than I expected.’

  For the next half-hour Biggles narrated the events since their arrival in Australia. ‘That’s how things stand at present,’ he concluded. ‘Although we’ve learned quite a lot,’ he went on, ‘all it has really done is thicken the fog, and left me wondering just what it is we’re trying to do. Chasing von Stalhein, or any other members of the gang, round the horizon, isn’t going to get us anywhere, as far as I can see. Even if we caught up with them, what then? You can’t arrest a man unless you have a case against him. There’s no law against buying ships or aeroplanes. You can’t prevent a man, in a free country, from cruising round the islands, or from sitting close enough to Woomera to hear the rockets go by — provided he behaves himself.’

  Bertie gave his monocle a rub. ‘In that case, old boy, would you mind telling me just what we’re doing here? Sorry, and all that, but I don’t seem to have got it.’

  ‘In a vague sort of way I can see two objectives,’ said Biggles. ‘The first is to find the headquarters of this man Smith, and the other is to get a complete list of the names that were in that secret file, one page of which we found on the island.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘I’d report back to the Air Commodore and suggest the whole thing should be handed over to the Australian Security people for any action they considered necessary. Obviously it would be out of the question for us to watch an unknown number of potential spies.’

  ‘Why not hand the case over as it stands?’ suggested Algy. ‘Why did the Air Commodore start us on this will-o’-the-wisp hunt?’

  ‘In the first place, I fancy he was actuated by the fact that von Stalhein was in the forefront of the scheme, and we know him and his methods. You must also bear in mind that the Air Commodore didn’t know what we know now; or what we suspect; that the ramifications of this business are widespread. Anyway, having started I think we must go on. There are several lines that we could follow.’

  ‘What’s the first,’ asked Ginger.

  ‘Obviously, we must check on this lugger Matilda and see if we can establish how it comes into the set-up. That shouldn’t be difficult. The owner must be on the gang’s pay-roll or he would not have been taken to the island where Wada was murdered. Nor would he have tried to ram the Otter, with the intention, no doubt, of leaving us marooned on the island.’

  ‘But hold hard, old boy,’ interposed Bertie. ‘About this ramming effort. I know I’m a bit slow on the uptake, but I don’t quite get it. According to Ginger, the wily Erich had a native crew with him. There were only two of you on the island. Why didn’t he bump you off while he had the chance?’

  ‘I can think of reasons why that might have been a silly thing to do,’ averred Biggles. ‘In the first place there was the aircraft. Had there been shooting Ginger could have taken off and radioed an S.O.S. for help; in which case the Matilda, on the high seas, wouldn’t have had a hope of escaping interception. On top of that, don’t forget Bill Gilson was in uniform. I might not have been missed, but Bill would have, and to murder a policeman, in this part of the world particularly, is to start something. For all von Stalhein knew Bill might have left word where he was going. No. Collision with the Otter, which would have left us stuck on the island, certainly long enough for the Matilda to reach the mainland, was safer. Had there been trouble it could be said the collision was an accident, and it would have been difficult to prove otherwise.’

  Ginger chipped in. ‘I had the feeling that Blackbeard, on the lugger, didn’t like to act on his own responsibility. He waited for von Stalhein to get aboard — and Erich had already decided what to do.’

  ‘Which brings us to the question, what do we do next?’ said Algy. ‘Wait here for the Matilda to come home?’

  ‘Because Matilda is registered in Darwin it doesn’t necessarily follow that she’ll come here,’ Biggles pointed out. ‘After what’s happened von Stalhein wouldn’t be likely to overlook the probability of someone being here to meet him. When we’ve had something to eat I’ll take a stroll along the waterfront to see if I can pick up any gen about Matilda or her owner.’

  ‘What’s the drill for tonight,’ enquired Ginger.

  ‘We’ll go into the town to get a meal. A walk’ll do us good.’

  ‘Taking our small-kit?’

  Biggles hesitated. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t like sleeping too far away from the machines. A hotel usually means a delay in the morning. We’d be just as comfortable on our mattresses in the cabins, and on the spot to move off smartly in the morning should we decide to go somewhere. After we’ve had some food I’ll go to the harbour. Don’t wait for me. I’ll join you here when I’m through.’

  One of the airport hands came into the canteen. He looked around, and called: ‘Mr. Bigglesworth here?’

  ‘Over here,’ answered Biggles.

  The man came over and handed him a folded slip of paper. ‘From the control room,’ he said, and walked away.

  Biggles read the message. ‘It’s from Bill Gilson. Good chap. Does what he says he’ll do. This is interesting. Auster VH-NZZ refuelled at Wyndham eleven thirty-five hours. Pilot and two passengers. Came in from south-west. Left heading north-east.’

  ‘Which means it was coming this way,’ said Ginger.

  ‘It didn’t land here or we should have seen it,’ stated Algy.

  ‘I wonder if we could find it,’ murmured Biggles, reflectively. He got up. ‘Let’s stretch our legs and see if we can find a beef-steak. That’ll do to go on with.’

  CHAPTER VIII

  The Opposition Strikes Back

  Later, after a good and satisfying meal, eight o’clock saw Biggles, by himself, making his way through the scented tropical night to the harbour, rubbing shoulders with as strange an assortment of humanity as could be found in any port on earth, east or west. Stockme
n in sombreros; Chinese vendors of potato chips; pearlers; black boys on bicycles; Greek merchants, and seamen of every colour and race under the sun — Malays, Indonesians, Cingalese, Maoris, and Melville Islanders who had paddled their canoes across sixty miles of shark-infested water to go to the cinema.

  Biggles soon found what he was looking for, a public house where the customers appeared mostly to be Europeans — or part-European. He went in, and ordering a drink, was soon in conversation with an elderly man whose dress and speech made it clear that his business was connected with salt water. Presently, Biggles said casually: ‘You may be able to answer a question for me. There used to be a lugger here named Matilda. I don’t see her now. Do you know what’s happened to her?’

  The man saw nothing odd in this question. ‘The Matilda,’ was the ready response. ‘Sure I know her. Used to belong to old Greeky Apergoulos. He sold her to that Dutchman Boller. Leastways he said he was a Dutchman, but I’d say he was a German. Don’t see much of her now. They tell me Boller’s working something up the Daly.’

  Biggles’s muscles had tensed at the name Boller; and he was hard put to maintain his pose of indifference when it was followed by the word Daly; for he remembered, of course, that the two words went together on the list of names and addresses in his pocket. ‘Boller,’ he prompted. ‘Who was he? I don’t seem to know him.’

  ‘You ain’t missed much. Nobody here’d be sorry to see him go for good. Always looking for trouble. Went out of his way to find it.’

  ‘Was he a big fellow with a black beard?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘You say he’s doing something up the Daly.’

  ‘He’s got a place at the head of the river. Cleaning a pandanus swamp to raise peanuts. So they say. I don’t believe it. He never struck me as the peanut-growing sort. I know some fellers have done well at it, but it’d take more than peanuts to get me there. The Daly’s no place for a Christian. Here it may be hell in the wet,1 but up there, with every kind of biting bug making yer life miserable, natives waiting for a chance to stick a spear in yer ribs, living on ironclads2 and native tucker, it must be hell all the time. I ain’t never been there, you understand, but I know some who have. Most of ‘em stayed — for good.’