Biggles and the Leopards of Zinn

by W E Johns

  These were followed by a variety of weapons far in excess of what were normally carried in the aircraft even on distant assignations in ‘off-the-map’ parts of the world. There was a reason for this, as will be appreciated later. They included a double-barrelled Express rifle, an ex-service .303, a double-barrelled ten-bore shotgun, and four forty-five revolvers. For all these there was a small supply of ammunition.

  ‘I say, you know, anyone would think we were going to start a bally war,’ observed Bertie, as the arsenal was carried under cover.

  ‘It may come to that,’ replied Biggles, dryly. ‘It’s unlikely that this battery of guns will ever be needed, and I hope it never will be; but on a job like this and in a place like this one never knows. I prefer to err on the safe side rather than be caught short of fire power miles from anywhere. We don’t want to end up like that.’ He jabbed a thumb towards two long low mounds of earth a short distance away, each with a rough wooden cross at the head. There was no need to guess what they were. They were obviously graves.

  He looked up at the vultures still sitting hunched in the lone tree. ‘What are they waiting for, I wonder,’ he muttered. ‘Those ugly brutes can smell death miles away.’

  ‘How about giving ‘em a rattle with the shotgun—to sort of discourage ‘em, if you see what I mean,’ suggested Bertie.

  ‘There’s no sense in wasting ammunition,’ answered Biggles. ‘But I think, before we settle in, it might be a good thing if we had a look round to make sure there’s nothing with spots on lying in wait for us.’

  ‘Oh come off it, old boy,’ protested Bertie. ‘I can’t see a leopard taking us on.’

  ‘Neither could they.’ Biggles nodded towards the graves. ‘I don’t like those vultures hanging about,’ he said again, frowning. He walked along to the entrance to the compound, stopping to survey the interior. This done, followed by the others, he began making a tour of the native covered sleeping quarters which, as already explained, were open in front. Nothing of interest was seen. Dry grass had been thrown down to serve as beds and in one place an overturned iron cooking pot lay on the ashes of a fire.

  They walked on. Reaching the little enclosed compartment Biggles stopped. ‘It’s in here,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What is?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘I don’t know. But I’ve had this feeling before. Those birds know. Stand still, everyone.’ In dead silence Biggles advanced to the entrance of the hut. A glance inside and he stepped back quickly. His face had paled. ‘I was right,’ he said, shortly. ‘So are those birds.’

  ‘A man?’ Ginger breathed the words.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. A coloured man. He wore some sort of uniform. It could be the chap who was to meet us here. Now I understand why the Zinns didn’t break their necks rushing to greet us.’

  ‘What killed him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t care to say. It looked like the work of an animal; lion—or leopard. Ghastly mess. The poor fellow has been torn to ribbons.’ Biggles lit a cigarette.

  ‘This is a nice start,’ muttered Algy. ‘What are you going to do? Bury him?’

  Biggles grimaced. ‘Not me. He’s been dead for two or three days, and in this climate you know what that means. Pile some of that dry grass round. We’ll burn the whole thing. It’s the only thing to do. But before we do that I shall have to check for identification.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ cried Ginger, aghast. ‘Must you?’

  ‘Definitely. As a soldier he’ll have an identity disc. I must get it for official records. We owe the poor chap that. He may have a family somewhere. The business won’t take long. Ginger, slip into the house and fetch me a roll of bandage and a bottle of antiseptic from the medicine chest.’

  Ginger hurried off and returned with the required articles.

  Biggles poured some of the liquid on the bandage, wound it round his mouth and nose and walked into the death hut.

  In five minutes he came out, a small round object dangling from a string in his hand. Without a word he closed the door. Then, flicking on his petrol lighter, he applied it to the sun-dried grass which the others had been piling round the flimsy structure. The flames leapt up, devouring the tinder-like material. For a few minutes, backing away from the heat, they stood watching the funeral pyre.

  There was nothing else for it,’ muttered Biggles, having removed the bandage from his face. ‘It was pretty nasty, but it had to be done.’ Walking down to the water he washed his hands and the object they held. This done he read the name on the disc.

  ‘Sergeant Abdullah I’Mobo,’ he murmured. ‘I’d say he was the man sent to meet us. He was either brave or a fool to stay here alone. He must have been warned of what had been going on. I’ll inquire about that when I report his death. He makes number three to die here.’

  ‘You say it really looked like the work of some wild beast?’ questioned Algy, as they returned slowly to the bungalow.

  ‘It did. The body, particularly the face and the clothes, had been torn to shreds by claws of some sort.’

  ‘In that case the killer could only have been a lion or a leopard.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t?’ Algy’s eyebrows went up. ‘Why not?’

  ‘If the killer had been a man-eater the body would at least have been partly consumed. As far as I could make out there were no signs of that. A man-eater kills for food.’

  ‘Maybe the beast wasn’t hungry.’

  ‘In that case it’s unlikely that it would have killed. In any case, a man-eater almost invariably returns to its kill. Why didn’t this one? That body had been there two or three days and nights. Those vultures knew it was there. Maybe they could smell it. But they daren’t go inside.’

  ‘I’d still say it was an animal,’ argued Algy.

  ‘All right. Then tell me this,’ requested Biggles. ‘The man was a soldier. As such he would have a rifle and cartridge belt. They weren’t in the hut. What happened to them? Even the most ferocious beast doesn’t bother itself with that sort of hardware.’

  They all stopped, looking at Biggles.

  But Algy still had one argument left. ‘That man wouldn’t come here alone,’ he declared. ‘There must have been a party of them. Right?’

  Biggles agreed.

  ‘Then I’d say what happened was this. When the man was killed the others collected his gear and returned to their base.’

  ‘If they stopped to collect his gear why didn’t they take his identity disc?’ Biggles shook his head. ‘No. That won’t do. I allow it’s hardly likely the man would come here alone. But if I know anything, when that man was killed, any others who may have been here at the time would move off at the double, stopping for nothing. The African can be brave enough when he’s facing something he understands; but when it comes to superstition, which is something beyond his control, he goes to pieces. And that doesn’t only apply to Africans.’

  No one answered.

  ‘Well,’ went on Biggles, ‘we shall have to see the same beast doesn’t maul us. I’m afraid that means double guards, day and night. I’m beginning to understand why we were sent here. With an aircraft we can move faster than people working on foot. Let’s get organized before the light goes.’

  * * *

  1 Estimated Time of Arrival.

  CHAPTER 2

  AN UNUSUAL ASSIGNMENT

  BIGGLES’ participation in the affair of the Leopards of Zinn had begun exactly a week earlier when his chief, Air Commodore Raymond, had called him to his office, and, without preamble, greeted him with the words: ‘I want you to make a sortie to Central Africa for me as quickly as possible.’

  Biggles’ face expressed no emotion. ‘Do you mean you, personally, want me to go?’

  ‘No. It’s the Colonial Office. It has been suggested to me that we might be able to untangle a little problem that’s worrying them there. Sit down.’

  Biggles took a chair and reached f
or a cigarette. ‘Why us?’

  ‘Because an aircraft has a degree of mobility denied to people who have to travel on foot, and in this case there might be a lot of ground to cover fast.’

  ‘I see. If it’s only a little matter why the hurry?’

  ‘It may turn out to be not so little.’

  Biggles smiled faintly. ‘Now we’re getting nearer the gristle.’

  The Air Commodore sat back, fingers together, expression serious. ‘In Africa at the moment, as you must know if you keep pace with the news, squibs have a habit of becoming rockets almost overnight. The whole continent is seething with unrest and it only needs a spark to start a fire. That, of course, is what certain trouble-makers hope to do. You’ve had a fair amount of experience flying over Africa.’

  ‘I have, but Africa’s a big place, and there are still large areas I’ve never seen. I doubt if one man in his lifetime could really get to grips with it.’

  ‘Think what it must have been like for the early explorers who had to do their work on foot.’

  ‘All I can say is, had I lived at that period I wouldn’t have been among them,’ stated Biggles, smiling. ‘I’m nothing for wearing out shoe leather. Life’s too short. I like to get quickly to where I’m going. Where exactly is the mischief brewing this time?’

  ‘A north central area called Zinda.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘I’d have been surprised if you had. Few people have been there, probably because there’s nothing to go for. It’s mostly dry country, for which reason cultivation is difficult and there’s no big game worth talking about. Again, for that reason, the district is sparsely populated. Here’s a tracing of the area from a large-scale map supplied by the Colonial Office.’ The Air Commodore passed a sheet of transparent paper. ‘As you see, the centre is Lake Jumu.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of that, either.’

  ‘Lake Jumu is one of the smaller lakes in the extreme north of Uganda, not a great distance from Lake Albert. You’ll have heard of that one. The nearest permanent British post is at Nabula. There’s a Resident Magistrate there, and a District Officer, with a small squad of Askaris—you know, King’s African Rifles. Reliable lads. There’s a rest-house of sorts on the shore of Lake Jumu. As you will see if you look at the map the lake is close to the border of the Belgian Congo. There’s been trouble there, too. For that matter it’s no great distance from Southern Sudan and the most easterly point of French Equatorial Africa. None of these boundaries are clearly defined, so be careful not to trespass. There’s no actual landing-strip near Jumu so I’d advise you to operate from the lake itself. Your best way of getting there would be to fly down the Nile refuelling at Malakal. Kampala, also on the main air route, would, as a base, probably be a bit too far south. However, I leave that to you.’

  ‘You say the country round Jumu is no use for anything. If so, what’s the fuss about?’

  ‘Apparently the ground is sterile, no use either for grazing or cultivation. The only people there are a small tribe called Zinns. They live on the shore of the lake.’

  ‘With no cultivation and practically no game what do they use for food?’

  ‘Fish. Oddly enough, there are plenty of fish in the lake. That’s their staple diet. They don’t get very fat on it. They’ve been invited to move to a better region but they prefer to stay where they are. Of all native Africans the Zinns are probably the least touched by civilization.’

  ‘I take it they come under our administration?’

  ‘Yes, although in practice we have little to do. As I’ve said, our nearest regular post is at Nabula, nearly two hundred miles away. There would be no point in keeping a district officer at Lake Jumu; there would be nothing for him to do. There isn’t enough game to attract professional poachers and it’s too far from anywhere to make prospecting worth while. It would be an expensive business to take a safari there. Such an expedition would only be justified were there reliable reports of something worth investigating. Even if anything was found it would have to be rich to make the cost of development worth while. Anyhow, now you understand why, with a lake available for landing, it was thought to be, apart from speed, more economical to send an aircraft.’

  ‘I take it the country has been thoroughly explored?’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s visited at intervals by an officer sent up from Nabula. He really goes to have a word with the Zinns to make sure they’re all right and do what he can for any sick among them. So far they’ve always seemed content. We’ve never had any trouble with them. Apparently all they want is to be left alone. They’re not even interested in what we are pleased to call modern conveniences.’

  ‘They’re not a warrior tribe?’

  ‘Nothing like that. There would be nobody for them to fight if they were. They just live quietly by fishing. They’ve been given corn and vegetable seeds in an effort to get cultivation going on the bank of the lake but they simply eat the stuff as soon as the visiting officer has gone. They’ve even been given fishing tackle, but they still go on the old way, driving fish into the shallows and then spearing them, regardless of crocodiles which cause a good many casualties. The Zinns accept the risk as a matter of course, in the same way that we ignore the likelihood of being knocked down by traffic every time we step on the road.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘Okay, sir. So much for the Zinns. I gather something has happened to upset this happy state of things.’

  ‘I’m coming to that now; but I wanted you in the first place to get a general idea of the set-up. The first indication of trouble occurred some weeks ago when the chief at Nabula sent up a young fellow named James, fresh out from Home, to make the periodic visit and have a look round. He had with him an escort of a sergeant and two native police, and six bearers—all coloured men. It seems that whereas the visiting officer was usually made welcome, on this occasion his reception was—well, not exactly hostile, but chilly. The Zinns seemed surly, unwilling to talk, as if they were afraid of something. The officer would, we may suppose, have attempted to discover the reason for this, had he been given the opportunity. He had an interpreter with him. But he was given no chance. That same night, sleeping in the government rest-house, he was killed by a leopard.’

  Biggles looked astonished. ‘A leopard!’

  ‘Yes. Presumably a man-eater.’

  ‘That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it—I mean, for a leopard to go inside a building?’

  The Air Commodore nodded. ‘I’d say most unusual.’

  ‘It’s known that there are leopards in the district?’

  ‘I suppose there could be leopards anywhere in Africa but there had been no earlier reports of a man-eater in the vicinity. In spite of being hunted for their skins they’re still fairly common. Normally, as you probably know, they prefer open, hilly, rocky ground, with some shade to lie up in during the heat of the day. I’m told there’s a fringe of forest not far from the rest-house; otherwise the country is open.’

  ‘Is it known exactly how this happened?’

  It was a hot, moonless night. James was sleeping with the door open. His men, sleeping in the compound, heard him cry out, but in the pitch dark there was nothing they could do. They say they saw nothing. When daylight came they found the body of poor James, horribly mutilated, with signs indicating that he had been mauled by a wild beast. They buried the body and spoke to the Zinns, but could get nothing out of them. Naturally, they then started back for their base to report what had happened.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘A professional white hunter, a man named Major Wilson, was sent up to get the man-eater. In his time he must have killed scores of lions and leopards. That was his job. He took his own safari of twenty bearers, yet within twenty-four hours of arrival he had suffered the same fate as James.’

  ‘Killed by a leopard?’

  ‘According to his bearers, who were pretty badly shaken, that was what it looked like.’

  ‘Why were these men so shaken? A white hunter
doesn’t take out men unless they have been tried and proved reliable. They must have faced tooth and claw often enough.’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s something we’d like to know.’

  Biggles stubbed his cigarette and lit another. ‘I see, sir. Now suppose we get down to brass tacks. You’re not asking me to go to Africa to look for a leopard, not even a man-eater. That’s not my line of country. Would I be right in guessing that there’s a suspicion there may be more behind this than appears on the surface?’

  ‘You would.’

  ‘Ah. It’s thought these two white men may have been murdered, and a four-footed beast had nothing to do with it, even if the signs pointed that way?’

  The Air Commodore smiled bleakly. ‘As usual you’ve kept up with the story. You may have heard of the secret societies of West Africa known as leopard-men, snake-men, and so on?’

  ‘Of course, but thank goodness they’ve never come my way.’

  ‘Well, the Resident Magistrate at Nabula has an idea that they may have muscled into our territory to start their racket there. These so-called secret societies are of course rackets, pure and simple. Like the gangsterism in America they work by blackmail. They say to selected victims, give us money, or you’ll die.’

  ‘But you say the Zinns have no money, or anything else.’

  ‘That’s what’s puzzling us. These half-educated hoodlums can terrorize an entire district. Even the chiefs of tribes have to pay tribute in order to stay alive. They’re an absolute curse, and cause untold trouble. Murder can never be proved. No one will give evidence against them. The method is for the killers to go out at night dressed in the skins of the beasts the society is supposed to represent and do their dirty work using teeth and claws for weapons. The death then looks like the work of a man-eater. That’s how they get away with it.’

  Biggles pursed his lips. ‘I see,’ he murmured, pensively.

  ‘If these devils have set up business near Lake Jumu we can say good-bye to the wretched Zinns. They’d be helpless. Even now they’re obviously scared stiff of something yet they’re afraid to talk. They’re not cowards. They have to face up to crocodiles to get their daily fish. Why should they be so scared of a leopard?’