by W E Johns
‘It looks to me as if this one was stalking us, or the bungalow, when Ginger first spotted it,’ put in Algy. ‘It might have been on the way to make a meal off the remains of Sergeant Abdullah.’
‘Could be. But it’s no use standing here guessing. I wonder what happened to the other thing Ginger saw. I don’t fancy trying to find it in this light. I still doubt if this was a man-eater. The Zinns must have seen plenty of leopards. I can’t see one so putting the wind up them that they’d turn against a District Officer. I’d have thought they’d be all the more pleased to see him if leopards were troubling them.’
‘What are you going to do with this one?’ asked Ginger.
‘Leave it where it is. We’ve no use for it. The vultures, and the hyenas and jackals if there are any about, will soon clean it up.’ Biggles smiled whimsically. ‘We seem to have made a bright start, first the croc and then this. Anyone would think we were on a big-game hunting expedition. We’ll stick around for a minute or two to see if those shots bring anyone along. If they don’t we’ll have something to eat and presently see about turning in.’
They waited for ten minutes or so, but although several animals had appeared—zebra, deer and antelope, making their way to water—there was no sign of a human being. The birds that had taken wing at the shots returned to their positions, the vultures to the tree and the waders to the rim of the lake, and once more all lay quiet. The hippos had hardly moved their position although they were a little nearer to the bank, presumably preparing for their nightly excursion ashore. As the tip of the great African moon appeared above the horizon Biggles walked back to the bungalow and switched on the portable electric lamp.
‘We’d better fix watches,’ he said, as he sat in one of the flimsy cane chairs with which the place had been provided. ‘I don’t think the order matters much. I suggest two watches taken turn and turn about. I haven’t a clue as to how long we shall be here, but it may be some time, so that will be the fairest way. Being near the water, which must serve a wide area, I’m afraid there’ll be a certain amount of disturbance during the night by animals coming down to drink, so we’d better be prepared for that. None of them is likely to worry us—unless another killer-leopard comes along.’
‘What about tomorrow?’ asked Ginger.
‘One of the first things we must do is fly down to Nabula and report the death of the sergeant they sent here. They’ll learn about that in due course from the escort that brought him here and must be on the way back; but the sooner the Resident Magistrate knows the better. I shall have to ask him for another interpreter or we shan’t get far with the Zinns.’
‘We shall have to find them before there’s any question of talking to them,’ reminded Algy.
‘Obviously. I was thinking it might be a good thing if we did that before flying down to Nabula. The R.M. will want to know what’s happened to them. That shouldn’t take many minutes. One trip round the lake should be enough. As they rely on it for their food they’re not likely to be far away from it. The run down to Nabula shouldn’t take more than two to three hours, so if we make an early start we should be pretty well organized to tackle our job seriously by lunch-time.’
‘Is there a landing strip at Nabula?’ inquired Ginger.
‘The chief thought not. I should be able to get down somewhere handy, anyway. A bigger worry is likely to be fuel. We shall have to go light. We’ve only what we brought with us and we shall have to keep enough in hand to get back to where there is some. But let’s not jump our fences till we get to ‘em.’
While this conversation had been going on the table had been laid with the canned rations on which the party would have to subsist. Not that there was any risk of starvation, with venison about on the hoof, and fish in the lake. But, as Biggles said, they didn’t want to waste time hunting for food. In any case, butchering meat was a messy business that would only be resorted to in case of emergency.
During the meal the two watches were arranged, the first from sundown to two a.m. and the second from two until six, when it would start to get light. At other times they would all be more or less on duty. On this, the first occasion, Ginger and Bertie were to take the first watch. The following night the order would be reversed.
They sat talking for some time, Ginger and Bertie taking turns to have a look round outside; then Biggles announced that he was going to bed. This would allow the light to be put out. It was attracting too many bugs, beetles and mosquitoes.
Ginger and Bertie went out to take up their positions.
They found the scene nearly as bright as daylight under a moon nearly full. All was quiet and there was not much to see. Some hippos had come ashore farther down the lake. Small parties of zebra, wildebeest and various deer, having had their drink, were drifting back across the wilderness to wherever they had come from.
They moved without showing any sign of alarm, which suggested there were no predators near.
Somewhere, a great distance away, but from which direction it was impossible to say, a drum began tapping a monotonous tomatom-tomtom, tomatom-tomtom. But that, too, was as much a part of Africa as the animals.
‘That drum could have something to do with us, telling everyone within earshot that we’re here,’ remarked Ginger.
‘That’s okay with me, old boy, as long as they don’t start rockin’ an’ rollin’ outside our front door,’ answered Bertie, cheerfully, smearing on his face some insect repellent. ‘These bally mosquitoes are going to be a bit of a bind.’
‘Are you telling me!’ replied Ginger. ‘After you with that bottle.’
CHAPTER 4
AN ADDITION TO THE PARTY
Day broke softly over the lonely lake after an uneventful night. It came silently and mistily, with no promise of the blazing heat that would come at noon. The dominant colour-tone was mauve-grey, a tint that gave the scene the quality of a picture forming slowly on a television screen. The unruffled surface of the lake took on an opalescent sheen, like mother-o’-pearl. The only spot of colour was provided by a colony of pink flamingoes, huddled together, each standing motionless on a long, stilt-like leg. The crocodile, looking uncomfortably lifelike, still lay where it had died. Near it, watching as if suspicious that it might be feigning death, stood a semicircle of scrawny, hunchbacked vultures, as evil as a brood of witches, patient, watchful. More sat on the dead branches of the leafless tree, ready to descend should the feast begin.
Biggles yawned and rose stiffly from the canvas camp-stool on which he had been seated near the verandah of the bungalow. He unloaded the rifle that had rested across his knees and propped it against the end post. The sound awoke Algy who since the first streak of dawn had been sleeping with his back to the wall. He, too, yawned, stirred, and sat up.
‘What’s the time?’ he asked drowsily.
‘Nearly six.’
‘Anything doing?’
‘Not a thing. We have the place to ourselves.’
‘I heard a lion in the night.’
‘So did I. It was miles away. You might have a look round the back while I put the kettle on for a pot of tea. My brain doesn’t work till I’ve had a cuppa.’ Biggles lit a cigarette.
Algy rose, and rifle in hand walked along to the end of the compound.
A vulture croaked and the ungainly birds on the ground flapped heavily to join those in the tree.
‘I’d have thought those stinking brutes would have been tearing the leopard to pieces,’ remarked Algy, inconsequently, as he reached the far end of the compound. There, suddenly, he stopped, staring.
‘Hi, Biggles,’ he called, in a curious voice. ‘Come here.’
Biggles, who was just going into the house, turned. ‘What is it?’
‘Come here,’ repeated Algy.
Biggles joined him. ‘What are you looking at?’
‘What am I not looking at.’
‘Well?’
‘The leopard. It’s gone.’
Biggles looked. A frown creased hi
s forehead. Without a word he strode on quickly to the place where the spotted beast had torn up the ground in its death struggles. There was nothing there. Not even a bone. He extended his gaze to the surrounding area.
‘What do you make of it?’ asked Algy.
‘I don’t make anything of it.’
‘Are you sure the brute was dead?’
‘With a hole blown through its head how could it be anything but dead?’ returned Biggles, sarcastically.
‘Could the vultures have cleaned it up?’
‘They couldn’t have eaten the bones. There would have been a mess of dry blood and stuff had they been here.’
‘Could a lion, or hyenas, have dragged it away?’
‘It wasn’t dragged away or we’d see the marks, the trail.’
‘So what?’
‘There’s only one answer. The carcase was carried away bodily. It must have happened during the night or the vultures would have been here at the crack of dawn.’ Biggles dropped the stub of his cigarette and put a foot on it, grinding it into the sand. ‘Somebody either saw us shoot that leopard or stumbled on it by accident after dark. I doubt if one man could carry it.’
‘Why would anyone carry it away?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe somebody wanted a leopard skin.’
‘It’s a shattering thought that anyone could come as close without our hearing him.’
‘Are you telling me! Of course, there’d be no need to make a noise about it. What we want now is a native tracker. There must be tracks, but on this sort of ground only an expert could follow them.’
‘What about bloodstains? The beast was bleeding when we left it.’
Biggles shook his head. ‘No. Blood congeals very quickly. We shan’t find any except what we can see here.’
He looked at the straggling fringe of forest not far away. ‘I don’t like that being so close. It could hide anything. We might be watched even at this moment. But there’s nothing we can do about that. Let’s ask the others if they heard any sounds in this direction while they were on guard.’
Biggles led the way back to the bungalow. ‘Come on, you chaps, show a leg,’ he called sharply from the door.
‘Oh I say, have a heart,’ complained Bertie, who had half fallen out of his bed. ‘What are you trying to do—give me a nervous breakdown, waking me up like that.’ He looked about. ‘Dropped my bally glass eye, too. Did you see where it went?’
‘It’s still in your face,’ Biggles informed him. ‘Get cracking. You’re wasting daylight. Tell me; did you hear any sort of noise during the night?’
‘Not a bally thing. Why? Has the old leopard been trying on his stuff again?’
‘On the contrary, the leopard we shot has gone.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘I do say.’
‘Where did it go?’
‘Don’t be a fool. How would I know?’
‘What’s this about the leopard?’ asked Ginger, getting out of bed.
‘It’s no longer where we left it.’
‘Don’t say it walked off after what we gave it!’
‘It was too dead to do any walking. Someone or something must have carried it off. I wondered if you heard any sort of noise while you were on duty.’
‘Only the usual grunts and squeaks. What about the croc? Has he gone, too?’
‘No, he’s still there. I don’t think we need bother with him. The vultures are waiting for a chance to tidy him up.’ Biggles lit the spirit stove and put the kettle on.
‘What’s the drill? Have you decided?’ asked Ginger when, after a quick toilet, they sat down to a breakfast of biscuits, tinned butter and jam.
‘I shan’t waste time looking for that leopard although I must admit I’m a bit concerned at the idea of the thing being spirited away under our noses. Let’s forget it for the time being. I want to go to Nabula and I want to locate the Zinns, but as the machine can’t be in two places at once the question is which to do first. I think I’ll start with the Zinns. That shouldn’t take many minutes. The R.M. at Nabula is bound to ask where they are and what they’re doing and I’d look a fool if I had to say I didn’t know.’
‘If you find them, without an interpreter it’s unlikely you’ll get anything out of ‘em,’ Algy pointed out.
‘It would be something to know where they are. I’ll make a quick trip round the lake. We needn’t all go. I don’t like leaving the house unguarded. We’d look silly if we came back to find the place and all our kit burnt out. I have a feeling anything could happen here. I’ll take Ginger with me. Algy, you stay here with Bertie and keep an eye on things. If you can drag that croc a bit farther away so much the better. The vultures won’t come down while we’re here. Come on, Ginger. You might bring the gun, just in case...’
The engines were started and the machine taxied on to the water. In another minute it was in the air, keeping low as it headed down the wide, flat, curving bank of the lake. Almost at once, as a new vista was brought into view, Ginger exclaimed: ‘There they are! Or there’s the village, anyway.’
In an open space not far from the water, where the sparse fringe of the forest came close to the lake, was a collection of typical kaffir beehive-shaped huts; but it seemed to Ginger, looking, that whereas these are usually well constructed, those he was now looking at were a ramshackle lot. There was not a soul in sight. Three canoes lay on the beach.
‘No one at home by the look of it,’ he remarked, as the aircraft flashed past at the height of a few feet.
‘Maybe we scared them,’ surmised Biggles.
Bringing the machine round he put it down on the sullen water and took it as far in as it would go without lowering the landing wheels. Still no one appeared.
‘Unless they’re hiding inside their huts the place has been abandoned,’ remarked Biggles. Leaving the engines ticking over he stood up and hailed: but there was no response. ‘Queer business,’ he murmured.
‘This could be an old village,’ suggested Ginger. ‘There might be another, a new one, farther on round the bend.’ He stared down the long, narrowing, horn-shaped piece of water towards its extremity.
‘Could be, but I doubt it,’ answered Biggles. ‘It takes something unusual to make this sort of people leave their homes.’ He switched off and jumped down into a few inches of water. ‘Keep that gun handy,’ he told Ginger, who followed him. ‘I’m not expecting trouble but one never knows.’
He walked to the nearest hut and looked inside.
‘They must have gone. They’ve taken their gear with them. The cooking fires are cold.’ Biggles looked at two heaps of mud that lay a little distance apart. ‘What the deuce have they been doing here?’
‘Digging, apparently.’
‘I can see that. But for what?’
Ginger shrugged. Suddenly he was alert. ‘There’s one of ‘em, peeping out of that hut at the back. He’s coming out.’
A little wizened creature emerged cautiously, waving his hands in signals that might have meant anything. Clad only in a scrap of rag, tiny, thin to emaciation, bent nearly double, he looked more like a monkey than a man. And, for that matter, bobbing about, chattering with rage or excitement, he behaved like one. With only a semblance of a nose flat on his face, an enormous mouth showing toothless gums, he looked a hundred years old but was probably a good deal less.
‘What’s he doing here by himself?’ queried Ginger, softly.
‘Who knows? Maybe he refused to leave with the others. Keep quiet or he may take fright, although he must often have seen a white man—the District Officer. Give him a chance to calm down. He’s all steamed up about something.’
This turned out to be less difficult than might have been expected, and it was a handful of biscuits, which Ginger fetched from the machine, that had the desired result. The old man was quick to recognize what they were. Chattering non-stop and gesticulating as if in a frenzy he bounded over, snatched them, and stuffed them into his mouth. He was ob
viously trying to tell them something but what this was could not be guessed. Sometimes the little old creature would beat the ground as with a club; then he would thrust with an invisible spear, or claw at the air helplessly, as if to say: ‘I could do nothing about it.’
‘Fetch him some more biscuits,’ said Biggles. ‘He looks more than half starved. At all events, there’s nothing wrong with his appetite.’
Using both hands the old man stuffed more biscuits into his big slobbering mouth.
‘This is where we need an interpreter,’ said Biggles. ‘He’ll quieten down when he sees we’re not going to hurt him and he’s let off a little more steam.’
This prophecy proved correct. The old man became less violent in his actions, although his eyes, as bright and active as those of the animal he resembled, kept suspicious watch on every move made by the visitors. Seen at close quarters he was even more unprepossessing than he had been at a distance. His ears, twice the normal size, stood out at right angles from an almost hairless head.
‘He wouldn’t win a prize at a beauty contest,’ remarked Ginger, disgustedly.
‘He must be a Zinn,’ averred Biggles. ‘I was warned they were a pretty low lot, but quite harmless.’
‘What are you going to do about him?’
‘What can we do? What’s he up to now?’
The old man, again bursting out with what sounded like a stream of invective, was now hopping away, looking back over his shoulder.
‘I think he wanted to show us something,’ opined Ginger. ‘He’s looking at us as if he expects us to follow him.’
This turned out to be a good guess, for when he saw that he was being followed the old man increased his speed. He did not go far. Running on ahead with many a backward glance he made for an open space a little to the side of the village. There he stopped, and pointing to the ground, let out a torrent of words which clearly meant: ‘What do you think of that?’
As far as Ginger could see there was nothing remarkable about the object that seemed to excite him. It was simply a hole in the ground about two feet square and a yard deep. There was nothing in it, as Ginger ascertained by looking into it.