Biggles In Australia

by W E Johns

  ‘How?’

  ‘You could arrest him, and bring him here for questioning.’

  ‘And make myself a laughing stock?’

  ‘That, I must admit, is a chance you’d be taking,’ conceded Biggles. ‘It’s up to you to decide whether it’s worth risking your career to save some of your people out there in the blue without a thought of danger in their heads. There is, of course, a possibility that Roth, if he’s a guilty party, may panic when he sees us, and do something that would warrant your picking him up. We might find something incriminating in his house. Anyway, it would be worthwhile if we could force him to hold his hand while I got cracking on Daly Flats.’

  Bill looked worried, as he had every reason to be. ‘This is a free country,’ he argued. ‘A man can go where he likes and do what he likes as long as he doesn’t break the law. And there’s no law against talking, to blacks or whites.’

  ‘And that’s exactly what the enemy reckons on,’ declared Biggles. ‘It makes his job easy and ours difficult. Well, I’m going to Tarracooma. You can please yourself whether you come or not.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ decided Bill. ‘We could have a look at this feller Roth. No harm in that. On the way I could see what aborigines were on the move. Give me a minute to report Hopkins’ murder and I’ll be with you.’

  ‘What about us?’ queried Algy, while they were waiting.

  ‘You and Bertie can come along. Anything can happen, and the more witnesses we have the better. The Otter will be all right here.’

  ‘How do you know you’ll be able to land at Tarracooma?’ inquired Bill, when he returned.

  ‘I don’t know. But it’s my guess there will be some sort of landing facility. Roth may be only a small fish in the spy outfit but his boss would want to keep in contact with him; and unless I’m off my mark his boss is Mr Smith, who has an aeroplane. Do you think you’ll be able to find the place, Bill?’

  ‘I know the general locality. It’s unlikely that there’s more than one establishment there, so if we see one, that should be it.’

  In a few minutes the Halifax was in the air again, on a course a little more to the south than last time. The same sort of country lay below, although there were wide areas of absolute desert, sand or ‘gibbers’, the rounded stones that look as if they should be on a seaside beach. Later there were broad patches of mulga —a small tree shrub of the acacia family. From one such growth a thin column of smoke was rising. Presently Biggles noticed another, and asked: ‘What’s that smoke? I don’t see anyone about.’

  Answered Bill: ‘We call ‘em mulga wires. Or if you like, bush telegraph. Aborigine talk. Natives signalling.’

  ‘About us?’

  ‘Possibly. Or about the murder. When you’re on the ground everyone gets advance notice that you’re on the way. But I doubt if the smoke signals can travel as fast as a plane. In the ordinary way I’d say they have no special significance; but I don’t like the way the aborigines are keeping out of sight. Of course, if they know a man has been killed that could be enough to send them into hiding. They know jolly well that someone will have to pay for it.’

  The aircraft droned on. The only sign of life in the wilderness was a small mob of kangaroos.

  ‘We call that light scrub and sand country ahead, pindan,’ informed Bill. ‘If this Tarracooma outfit is really raising sheep we soon ought to see something of ‘em. A sheep run can have a frontage of a hundred miles.’

  The Halifax droned on, bumping badly in the shimmering heat.

  Another twenty minutes passed and Bill said: ‘Tarracooma should be about here somewhere. It’s new ground to me so I can’t say exactly where it is. There’s pretty certain to be a billabong — that’s a waterhole — so if you climbed a bit higher, and circled, we might spot the light shining on it. Water stands out clear in this sort of country. If there isn’t any natural water there should be an iron windmill working an artesian well.’

  As it turned out there was a waterhole. As Biggles climbed Ginger spotted it a long way off. He called attention to it, whereupon Biggles cut the engines and began a long glide towards it. Some buildings, made conspicuous only by the shadows they cast, came into view; and a few sheep. Then one or two aborigines appeared, running; one led two horses into a building, presumably a stable.

  ‘I can see wheel marks on that sand patch,’ said Bill.

  ‘So can I — but there’s nothing to show what made them,’ replied Biggles. ‘Could have been a car, although they look a bit too wide for that. We shall soon see. You’d better do the talking. What line are you going to take?’

  The first thing is to have a look at Roth, and see how he shapes.’

  ‘You’ll have to give a reason for calling.’

  ‘I’ll ask him if he’s had any trouble with his native boys.’

  ‘He’ll say no. Which as far as he’s concerned will probably be true, because he’s one of the very people who’s causing the trouble. At least, I think he must be. I can think of no other reason why he should be on von Stalhein’s list.’

  ‘I shall bear that in mind,’ asserted Bill.

  The range of buildings was now almost directly below. The actual house was a long low bungalow of timber and corrugated iron. Ginger thought it looked new. Certainly it had not been there very long.

  ‘No one’s come out to have a look at us,’ observed Bill.

  ‘They’re looking all right, don’t make any mistake about that,’ returned Biggles, with a suspicion of a sneer in his voice.

  He landed down a rather confused line of tracks and ran on as near the bungalow as was practicable, the distance from it being about fifty yards. He switched off. They got down. Ginger could see natives watching them surreptitiously from the outbuildings.

  ‘Somebody had better stay with the machine,’ decided Biggles. ‘In fact, I think you, Algy, and Bertie, might both stay. You’ll be able to see what happens, and you’ll be close enough to step in if Mr Roth starts chucking his weight about. I don’t think he will, but one never knows.’

  Bill, with Biggles and Ginger, strode on to the front door of the building; but before they reached it, it was opened, and a man stood on the threshold. The colour of his skin was enough to reveal at a glance that he was a mixed breed.

  ‘Mr Roth at home?’ began Bill, casually.

  ‘He is. I’m Roth,’ was the answer.

  For a moment Bill looked somewhat taken aback. As, indeed, was Ginger, and no doubt Biggles too. Naturally, it had been assumed that Roth was a white man. That this was clearly not so put an unexpected factor into the proceedings; but there was of course no opportunity to discuss it.

  ‘May we come in?’ questioned Bill, cheerfully, for they had received no invitation to enter. He moved forward.

  With some reluctance, it seemed to Ginger, Roth gave way. He gave the impression that he, too, had been caught unprepared — unprepared, that is, for a visit from a police officer. Had Bill been travelling on foot, or on a horse, Roth would probably have had ample warning of his approach.

  The door opened directly into what was plainly the living-room. The table was littered with dirty plates and glasses, more than one man would be likely to use at one meal. An empty whisky bottle stood amongst the debris.

  ‘I see you’re having a party,’ said Bill, evenly. ‘I hope I haven’t disturbed it?’

  This was spoken as a question; but Roth ignored it. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, in a guttural voice that suggested, as did his name, German parentage on the white side of his pedigree.

  ‘I’m calling on some of the people in the outback, to see if everything’s going on all right.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t it?’

  ‘One or two of ‘em report a little trouble with their aborigines.’

  ‘No trouble here.’

  ‘Who have you got in the house?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘It just struck me that if you’ve got neighbours here I could sp
eak to them while I’m on the ground. That would save me a journey, mebbe.’

  ‘What visitors would be likely to come here?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’d know better than me. I notice one of your friends has a plane.’

  Whether this was a shot in the dark, or whether Bill had mentally measured the wheel tracks outside, Ginger did not know. Bill knew the track of the Auster was six feet, for they had told him so on Eighty Mile Beach.

  ‘Friend of mine come up from Perth,’ announced Roth, after a momentary hesitation, in which, apparently, he had decided not to deny that a plane had been there. Not that he could very well deny it, with the tracks outside.

  ‘Would I know him?’ asked Bill, carelessly.

  ‘Shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘What’s his name.’

  Roth frowned. ‘Say, what’s the idea of all these questions?’

  ‘I’m just setting my clock right as to who’s about in my territory. Have you some objection to answering a few civil questions?’

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘Then why not tell me this man’s name?’

  Roth scowled. ‘All right. If you must know, it’s Adamsen.’

  Biggles caught Ginger’s eye.

  ‘Is he still here?’ asked Bill.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  Roth’s scowl deepened. ‘Why should there be anyone else?’

  Bill’s manner did not change. ‘Only that I notice five people have just had a meal, and I reckon it’d take more than two of you to empty a bottle of whisky.’

  That did it. ‘What’s it got to do with you who I have in my house?’ spat Roth. ‘Ain’t you got nothin’ better to do than waste my time with a lot of fool questions? What are you trying to get at, anyhow?’

  Bill’s voice took on a more brittle quality. ‘What I’m trying to get at is the man who murdered Joe Hopkins, the digger.’

  Roth stiffened. Alarm showed for a moment in his eyes. He was not a good dissembler.

  ‘So you knew about that,’ pressed Bill.

  ‘I didn’t say so.’

  ‘But you knew about it.’

  ‘No I didn’t.’

  Bill strode to a corner of the room picked up a rifle that was leaning against the wall, and holding it by the muzzle pushed the butt forward. ‘If you didn’t know, how did this get here?’ he rasped.

  Roth stared. His tongue flicked nervously over his lips.

  ‘This is Joe’s rifle and you know it,’ challenged Bill.

  ‘I didn’t know who it belonged to,’ shouted Roth.

  ‘How did it get here?’

  ‘I took it off one of my boys.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I won’t let ‘em carry guns.’

  ‘Then let’s ask him where he got it from,’ said Bill firmly. ‘Send for him.’

  ‘He ain’t here any longer,’ muttered Roth.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I sacked him a week ago.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Charlie.’

  ‘Charlie what?’

  ‘How would I know? I can’t remember the name of every native who works for me.’

  ‘How many have you got working for you?’

  ‘About a score.’

  ‘What do they all do?’

  ‘What do aborigines usually do on a station?’

  ‘Look after the stock — when there is any,’ rapped out Bill, meaningly. At this juncture the door of an inner room was opened and four men entered. One, the leader, was white; a cadaverous fellow with small dark eyes set close together and a straggling beard. Two were mixed race although one of them had more than a hint of Asiatic in his make-up. The other was a full-blooded aborigine, dressed like the rest.

  ‘What’s all the fuss about?’ inquired the leader of the newcomers.

  ‘The fuss is about a murder,’ answered Bill, shortly. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘The name’s Adamsen — if that means anything to you.’ The man grinned unpleasantly, showing a row of broken discoloured teeth, as if he would make a joke of the business. ‘I ain’t murdered anyone — so far,’ he added.

  ‘I didn’t say you had,’ retorted Bill curtly. He took out his notebook. ‘I’ll have the names of the rest of you while I’m here,’ he stated. ‘I may have to call on you as witnesses.’

  A sullen silence settled on the room.

  ‘Come on,’ requested Bill, impatiently, pencil in hand. No one answered.

  ‘I see,’ said Bill, coldly. ‘So that’s how you feel about it. Don’t worry, I’ll remember your faces. Is there anyone else in that room?’ A few quick strides took him to the doorway through which the men had entered. After a glance round he said: ‘You got a licence for a wireless transmitter, Roth?’

  ‘I ain’t had time. It’s only just been put in.’

  ‘Who put it in — Adamsen?’

  There was no answer.

  Bill came back. ‘You’re coming with me,’ he told Roth.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Broome.’

  ‘Like heck I will. What for?’

  ‘To make a statement as to how the property of a dead man came into your possession.’

  ‘I’ve told you all I know.’

  ‘I’m not satisfied with your explanation.’

  ‘It’s as much as you’ll get out of me. And I ain’t moving from here.’

  ‘You won’t gain anything by resisting the police.’

  ‘That’s all you know,’ sneered Roth, apparently gaining confidence from the presence of his supporters.

  At this point, before anyone could stop him, the aborigine dodged across the room to the front door, and putting his fingers to his mouth let out a shrill whistle. Instantly, from where they had been watching, a score of natives came running towards the house.

  ‘I reckon it’s time you were going,’ scoffed Roth.

  Bill’s lips came together in a hard line. ‘You rat, to drag these poor fellows into trouble.’

  Roth’s grin broadened. ‘It’s you that’s in trouble, mister,’ he mocked. ‘Better get going.’

  ‘Yes, I’m going, and you’re coming with me,’ said Bill, calmly — surprisingly calmly, Ginger thought, considering he was unarmed.

  Roth’s right hand began to move slowly towards his side pocket; but it stopped when he found himself looking into the muzzle of Biggles’s gun.

  ‘Don’t move, anybody,’ said Biggles, with ice in his voice. ‘Ginger, give Bill your gun, then take the valves out of that radio equipment.’

  Ginger handed his gun to Bill and walked to the open door of the inner room. Adamsen half turned as if he would stop him.

  Biggles’s gun whipped round. ‘Stand still,’ he grated; and there was something in his manner that brought the man to an abrupt halt, staring.

  Ginger went on. He was soon back. ‘Okay,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll pay for this,’ stormed Roth.

  ‘We’ll talk about who’s going to pay later,’ said Bill. ‘Are you coming with me?’

  ‘No.’

  Bill handed his gun to Ginger. ‘Hold this,’ he said, in a matter-of-fact voice. Turning back to Roth he put out a hand to take his arm — or that was what it looked like. At the same time he said: ‘For the last time, are you coming quietly?’

  ‘I’ll see you in hell first,’ snarled Roth, and struck Bill’s arm aside.

  Bill’s fist flew out. It landed on Roth’s jaw and hurled him staggering back against the wall. Before he could recover, moving at a surprising speed for a man of his stature, Bill followed up and hit him again, this time knocking him down. He stooped swiftly. Handcuffs clicked. ‘I’ll teach you to have a little more respect for the law,’ he said trenchantly. ‘Come on.’

  All this had happened so quickly that the other members of the party hadn’t moved, but stood staring, as if finding it difficult to believe their eyes. Biggles, gun in hand, watched them without emotion.

  Ginger, w
ondering why the aborigines did not come in, threw a glance at the outside door. Algy was standing on the step. The natives had stopped before his automatic.

  Bill, grim-faced, and a trifle pale under his tan, pushed Roth towards the door.

  Roth, seeing that his friends were not going to help him, flew into a passion. In a voice thin with panic he shouted: ‘Gimme a hand some of you. What are you gaping at, you blasted cowards. Charlie—’ He broke off abruptly, as if realizing that in his temper he had let something slip.

  Bill stopped. ‘Charlie,’ he repeated, and swung round to face the aborigine, who was backing into the room. ‘So you’re Charlie?’

  ‘Yes, he’s Charlie,’ spat Roth vindictively. ‘I’m not swinging for him.’

  Charlie moved like lightning. He whipped out a knife. His arm went up.

  Biggles hardly moved. His gun crashed. Charlie staggered screaming, clutching his arm.

  The knife clattered on the floor. Biggles kicked it aside and grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck.

  ‘Mind he hasn’t got a gun in his pocket,’ warned Bill.

  Biggles tapped the man’s pockets. Apparently he felt something, for his hand dived into a side pocket. It came out holding a small but bulging bag of kangaroo hide.

  ‘That’s it,’ cried Bill. ‘That’s Joe’s poke. Bring him along.’

  ‘You won’t want me now,’ contended Roth.

  ‘You knew all about it,’ snapped Bill. ‘I’m holding you for an accessory.’

  Charlie was groaning. Whether Adamsen and the two half-breeds knew about the murder was questionable. At all events, they were clearly unwilling to be associated with it, for they did nothing. Roth was cursing Charlie luridly for keeping Hopkins’ gold, about which he had evidently not been told. Altogether, it was an ugly example of crooks ratting on each other.