by W E Johns
‘Dis old box, he won’t open no-how,’ declared the negress.
Ginger, drawing near, saw that the object was indeed a box, or had been one before being battered out of recognition. He thought he perceived a slight resemblance to a pressed-steel uniform case, such as travellers often use in the tropics where white ants are liable to attack any softer material. The colour, such as remained, was right, too. He also saw the cause of the trouble. The negress was telling the truth. The receptacle carried two heavy brass locks, and they were still intact, as were two handles, one at either side. Clearly, the woman, not having a key, was trying to open the box or get to the contents with an instrument which, while powerful, was quite unsuitable for the purpose. Anyone who has tried to open a tin of sardines without a key, as had Ginger on more than one occasion, will appreciate the difficulty of the undertaking.
‘Where are the keys?’ enquired Biggles blandly.
The Negress threw him a sidelong glance. ‘I dun lost dem,’ she explained.
‘That was careless of you,’ chided Biggles. ‘Why not tell the truth and say you never had them?’
The woman sighed. ‘Yus too smart for me, suh.’
‘Where did you get the box?’ persisted Biggles.
‘Found it, suh, washed up on the beach.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Susannah Shaw.’
‘Very well, Susannah,’ went on Biggles. ‘Now suppose you go on telling the truth about the box.’
The woman hung her head. She was a simple soul, and her embarrassment was pathetic.
‘Come on,’ pressed Biggles.
‘I found it, suh.’
‘Of course you found it,’ agreed Biggles. ‘But where? Come on now. You don’t want me to report you to the government for stealing flamingo eggs, do you?’
‘No, suh.’
‘You know what’ll happen to you if I do?’
‘Yes, master.’ The woman was now looking frightened.
‘Very well. Suppose I tell you where you found the box? You dug it up in the hut over by the flamingos, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, suh.’ The voice was hardly audible.
‘It’s all right, Susannah,’ went on Biggies kindly. ‘We’re not going to report you, or anything like that. But we happened to be looking for a box like the one you’re trying to open. It doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to the government and you’ll have to give it up.’
‘Yes, suh.’
‘You’ll get a reward, of course.’
She brightened at that.
‘How long have you had it?’
‘Bout a week, suh.’
‘And you haven’t managed to get it open yet?’
‘No, suh.’
Biggles smiled. ‘You’ve had a good try, I see. What did you think was in it?’
‘Treasure, suh. Folks is allus finding treasure round the islands, hid away in dem bad old pirate days.’
Biggles picked up the box, not without difficulty, for it was heavy, as being of metal it would be, apart from the contents. He rocked it to and fro. ‘Doesn’t sound like treasure to me,’ he said. ‘Feels more like paper inside.’ He tried to squint through one of the gashes made by the axe, but not succeeding, allowed the box to fall back to the ground. ‘How did you know the box was in the hut, Susannah?’ he asked. ‘Come along now, we might as well have the whole truth. You’ve nothing to be afraid of.’
Nervously, and sometimes near to tears, the negress told her story in a way that left no doubt about its veracity. It sounded reasonable enough, too.
Her husband, she said in effect, had been appointed by the government, at a small salary, to watch over the flamingos and see that no one robbed the nests. He had built the hut for shelter while he was so employed. That was a long time ago. She couldn’t say exactly how long. Anyway, he had died. The money had stopped coming, and she, as a widow, had found herself destitute. The remedy was at hand and she had succumbed to temptation. She had taken some eggs – only a few at first – to Matthew Town, where she had sold them. They were, she claimed ingenuously, and perhaps truthfully, that in doing this she was helping the government, because, otherwise the ‘black trash’ of Mathew Town would have raided the nesting ground and wiped out the whole colony. As it was, they were afraid of her, and kept clear. After all, she said, as her husband had been in charge, and no one else had been appointed, the flamingos were her responsibility. Ginger could not repress a smile at this. Clearly, the truth was, without the flamingos, she would be in danger of starvation. So she protected them. In protecting them she helped the government and herself at the same time.
She went on. One day, a long time ago, when she was collecting a few eggs, she saw a man, a stranger, come up from the sea carrying a box. Afraid that he might be a government inspector she hid herself and watched. The man went to the hut. When he went away he no longer carried the box. She knew the box must be in the hut, but she didn’t even look for it, although she had a good idea where it was. She was not a thief. Time passed. At intervals the man appeared. Always he went to the hut. Then came a long time when she did not see him and she decided that he was never coming back; so, her curiosity getting the better of her, she went to the hut and without much difficulty found the box. She dug it up and carried it home, only to find that she couldn’t open it. The only tool she possessed was the axe. She dared not take the box to Mathew Town for fear of questions being asked. Even if she had borrowed a better tool she would have been followed to see for what purpose it was required, for there were many stories of treasure on the island and everyone was always on the look-out. This, she affirmed, was truth. Seeing white men on the island, she was afraid they had come for the box, and not daring to confess, had tried to keep out of sight. But provisions being low she had been compelled to risk a raid on the eggs. That was all. She was ‘berry, berry sorry’ if she had done wrong, and hoped she wouldn’t be taken away from her home.
‘Of course not,’ Biggles hastened to assure her. ‘But I shall have to take the box because it is government property.’ He took out his notebook, counted out some notes and handed them over. ‘There you are, Susannah. That should keep you going for some time. But mind, no more egg-stealing. When I get home I shall suggest to the government that you are made the guardian of the flamingos, and paid the same as your husband before he died.’
‘Thank you, master. You berry kind, suh,’ acknowledged the old woman with tears in her eyes.
‘Meanwhile I wouldn’t say anything about this to anybody.’
‘No, suh.’
‘All right. Good-bye, Susannah.’
‘Good-bye, suh. God’s blessing on you.’
‘Bring the box,’ Biggles told the others. ‘It’s a bit on the heavy side, so carry it between you. We haven’t far to go.’
‘We’ve got it!’ cried Ginger triumphantly, as they set off in the direction of Man-o’-War Bay.
I think it must be the stuff we came for,’ assented Biggles cautiously.
‘Let’s open it and make sure,’ suggested Ginger. ‘It would be a sell-out if we were wrong.’
‘Open it,’ queried Biggles. ‘With what? We can no more open the confounded thing than could Susannah. Good thing she couldn’t open it, or having no use for the plans, she would probably have used them to light the fire. Then we should never have known what had become of them and the Ministry of Defence would have had sleepless nights for years to come. Hark!’
The drone of an aircraft was wafted on the gentle breeze.
‘Algy!’ said Ginger, with satisfaction. ‘Just at the right time.’
‘Right on the dot,’ agreed Bertie. ‘Everything is all opening and shutting. Jolly good.’
The machine was evidently flying low, for they couldn’t see it. The engines died. They could hear it gliding into the bay with the obvious intention of landing.
They hurried on.
They still had nearly half a mile to go when from the bay came a sudden burst of
gunshots.
‘That can only mean that von Stalhein is there,’ rapped out Biggles, and broke into a run. Bertie and Ginger struggled along behind him with the box. ‘Leave that!’ said Biggles tersely. ‘If they shoot up the machine, we’ve had it. Ginger, you stay and take care of the box. We’ll be back. Come on, Bertie.’
He raced away, Bertie at his heels, leaving Ginger standing by the box, slightly bewildered by the sudden change of outlook. He stared at the box. Lying in the open it looked dangerously conspicuous. Should von Stalhein come that way, as was possible, he could hardly fail to see it. He would guess what it was. The thing would be better out of sight, Ginger decided quickly. Where could he put it?
There was not much in the way of a hiding-place. All he could do at short notice was drag the thing into a small hollow near a tangle of prickly pear. Over it he threw anything that came to hand – grass, sticks, dead leaves and other rubbish. This did not entirely cover it, but it was at least well-camouflaged and unlikely to be seen except by anyone who knew it was there.
While thus engaged he kept an ear in the direction of the bay, from which came sounds that fanned his anxiety to acute alarm. There were more shots. These were followed by the roar of engines and the unmistakable signs of an aircraft taking off. He stood still, listening. The drone receded. Them it increased in volume as if the machine were returning. The sound ended abruptly as the engines were cut. Still he could not see the machine; but he could hear it flying. What on earth could Algy be doing? He stood rigid, trying to follow the machine with his ears. The sound faded. Silence fell.
After a while, as everything remained quiet, he sat down on the box to wait. There was no indication of what was going on at the bay. It was all very worrying. Anything could have happened. Apart from events elsewhere, the responsibility of being left alone in charge of the box weighed heavily upon him. On its safe custody, he reflected, might rest the fate of nations. He couldn’t even get at the papers to burn them in an emergency. What else could he do with the box, he wondered, looking around in desperation? Nothing, it seemed. Perhaps Biggles would soon be back. He hoped so, fervently.
This hope was not fulfilled. An hour passed. The uneasy silence dragged on. What was happening? Something serious, obviously, or Biggles would be back by now. He fell back on the old solace of no news being good news. But he found it unconvincing. In a case like this, he felt that no news could only mean bad news. How right he was in this, fortunately he did not know.
Many possibilities occurred to him, but without any means of checking them they merely added weight to the burden of his apprehensions. Not far away there was a low ridge that promised a view of the sea. He was tempted to go to it, but he daren’t risk leaving the box. Mere curiosity would not justify it. Biggles had told him to stay where he was, so he stayed. At least he had the comfort of knowing that they were aware of his position.
For something to do, to occupy his mind and curb his impatience, he tried, as Biggles had done, to see inside the box through the largest of the gashes made by the axe. Using his knife as a lever, he managed to widen it a fraction, enough to reveal, just inside, the corner of a sheet of paper. After several failures he succeeded in impaling this with one of the long, stiff cactus thorns, and drew it up until he could get hold of it with finger
and thumb. He was now able to pull the paper through the slit to the extent of about three inches. Farther than that it would not come, for the paper, being stiff, jammed against the ends of the slit and started to tear against the sharp edges of the metal when he applied force. However, he could see enough for his purpose. The paper was white on one side and blue on the other. On the blue side were the white lines of a drawing of some mechanical device. The lettering was in German, and the dimensions marked in metres. That was really all he wanted to know. These were Hagen’s plans without a doubt. There could hardly be two sets of German blueprints on the island. With a feeling of satisfaction that he had employed his time usefully, he tucked the paper back into the box and resumed his vigil.
The minutes of another half-hour crawled round I face of his watch. The breeze died. The sun blazed. A blue and yellow striped lizard emerged from its hole and flicked a long tongue at an incautious fly. A red and green humming-bird, humming like an overgrown bee hung poised in mid-air while its beak explored a scent cactus blossom within a yard of his head. But Ginger was not interested in natural history at that moment.
The snapping of a twig not far away brought him to his feet with a sigh of relief. Biggles at last, he thought. From the direction of the bay a man came into sight. It was not Biggles. It was a coloured man. Presently he saw that it was Morgan. From the manner of his progress he was on a definite errand. Where the man was going Ginger neither knew nor cared. The fact that was there was enough.
Slowly, Ginger began to sink down, hoping that he would not be seen. The last thing he wanted, with the box in his charge, was trouble of any sort, with anybody, least of all with the murderous negro.
For a brief interval it looked as if all would be well. Morgan strode on. But at the last moment something made him turn his head, and looking across the patch of open ground he saw Ginger crouching there. In a flash he had swerved aside into some bushes. A second a revolver crashed, and Ginger, who was thinking terms of razors rather than firearms, felt the wind of the bullet on his cheek. His reaction was to duck behind the box, a position from which he returned the shot. He knew that shooting at an unseen target was usually hopeless, but he thought he would let the negro know that he was armed. Anyway, the shot missed. Apparently Morgan having fired, had shifted his position, for the next shot, which followed quickly, came from a different place. Ginger crouched even lower as the bullet splashed pieces of fleshy cactus leaf over him.
For a little while there was silence, a sultry, attentive silence.
Then, watching closely, Ginger saw a bush shake slightly. Knowing that he was fighting for his life, he didn’t hesitate. He raised his pistol, took careful aim, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He pulled again harder. Still nothing happened, and his mouth went dry with mortification as he realized that the inherent weakness of almost all automatics had chosen this moment to operate. His gun had jammed.
In a fever of haste and exasperation he worked on it, trying to clear the cartridge; but it refused to budge. He saw what had caused the calamity. Sand. Only recently he had cleaned the weapon. There must have been a smear of oil left on it. Sand or dirt in his pocket had stuck to the oil.
Had it not been for the box he would have abandoned valour for discretion and made a bolt for it. In fact, he considered doing so. But the box! If he left it, he might never see it again. He decided that he would rather be shot than have to tell Biggles that he had lost the box, which, incidentally, was his only cover.
Another shot, from a fresh place, came unpleasantly close. His inability to return it would, he feared, tell Morgan the truth; that his gun was out of action. Or he might think that he was out of ammunition. At any from his failure to shoot back, the negro would soon realize that he was unable to do so and that would be the end. His only hope, he thought, was that Biggles or Bertie would hear the shooting and come to see what it was about. Even that was cold comfort, for their first indication of what was afoot might be a bullet.
Another shot struck the box with a metallic whang, and in ricocheting grazed his arm. Worse and worse. Morgan would naturally wonder what the bullet struck, and in due course investigate. Up to then Ginger had a vague hope that even if he were killed Morgan would fail to discover the box. Now even that consolation was denied him.
He could see from the occasional shake of a bush that the negro was getting near, apparently seeking an angle from which his target would be fully exposed.
With the end so near, Ginger tried a bluff. ‘One more step, Morgan, and I’ll shoot,’ he shouted. But somehow, even to himself, his voice lacked conviction.
Apparently Morgan thought so too, for with a yell, gun
raised, he burst from the bushes and charged.
Ginger sprang to his feet and hurled his useless gun into the distorted face. Then, in taking a pace to the rear, his heel caught in a projecting root and he went over backwards. His head struck a rock. Sparks danced before his eyes. Dazed, he tried to claw his way to his feet. As in a nightmare he saw a tall black body towering over him. A gun roared.
A great weight descended on him, pressing him into the ground.
CHAPTER 12
HEAVY ODDS
Ginger had been right in his supposition that something serious had happened to delay Biggles’s return. Not only had things happened, they were continuing to happen.
Biggles and Bertie, racing towards the bay regardless of thorns or anything else, were just in time to see Zorotov, with von Stalhein and the negro, running towards the far side, which was the direction of the mangroves and, of course, the yacht. Zorotov, looking round before disappearing into cover, saw them, and fired a shot or two; but at such a long range they did no damage.
Biggles did not trouble to reply. He was more concerned with the Otter, which was in the air, heading out to sea, having taken off again after landing. In a way he was relieved to know that the machine was still airworthy, but he was upset at having lost touch with it. But, as he told Bertie, it was just one of those things. They couldn’t be everywhere at once. Had they stayed in the bay they wouldn’t have got the box. They couldn’t have it all ways. So, frustrated, all they could do was stand and watch. After the reception he had received there seemed little likelihood of Algy coming back – at any rate to the bay.
For what had happened was plain enough to see. Zorotov and his confederates had taken the coast route home, and by an unfortunate chance must have been walking round the beach of Man-o’-War Bay when the aircraft appeared. Von Stalhein, guessing its ownership and purpose, would not be slow to seize an opportunity so fortuitously thrown in his way. He and the others had waited for the machine to land and then opened fire on it with all the weapons they had in the hope of putting it out of action and so marooning Biggles and his party on the island. But to put an aircraft out of action with single shots is not an easy matter, and having failed in their objective they had proceeded on their way, deriving some satisfaction, no doubt, from having forced the machine to abandon its mooring.