Biggles and the Leopards of Zinn

by W E Johns

  The old man, squatting on his haunches, looked from one to the other of them, his bright little eyes still asking the question: ‘What about that, eh?’

  Ginger saw nothing to it, but Biggles considered the hole thoughtfully. ‘I’ll tell you something,’ he said. ‘This hole was dug by a man, and it wasn’t just scratched out. It was dug with a tool. Look at the square sides, cut clean. That could only have been done with a square blade, like a spade. A steel spade. You can see the sharp edges as the cuts were made. I can’t imagine the Zinns having such a tool. Nor can I see them digging such a hole just for the fun of it. It serves no useful purpose.’

  ‘You think there’s been a stranger here?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure of it.’

  ‘A white man?’

  ‘Probably. Let’s say a man who has a spade and knows how to use it.’

  ‘What do you suppose he was digging for?’

  ‘If I knew that I should know the answer to what’s been going on here.’ Stooping, Biggles picked up a handful of dirt, studied it closely, squeezed it and opened his hand. The earth, reddish in colour, trickled through his fingers.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Traces of oil. I thought someone might have been prospecting for it. Just an idea. When there’s oil under the ground some of it can work its way to the surface and give the soil a greasy feeling. Squeeze it and it sticks together in a lump.’

  ‘Nothing like that here?’

  ‘No. The stuff’s as dry as dust. You saw it run through my fingers like sand. Somebody’s after something. It may be oil. But there are no signs of it here.’

  ‘Well, what are we going to do? The others will be wondering what we’re up to.’

  ‘Yes. We had better be getting back.’

  ‘What are you going to do with the old man? Leave him here to run wild?’

  Biggles considered the question. ‘He might starve to death. I’d say he’s either been abandoned or he refused to leave the village with the others. He seems to have plenty to say, but without an interpreter it would be a waste of time to try to get at what he’s yammering about. If we could get him into the machine I’d take him back to the bungalow and keep him there until someone comes up from Nabula able to talk his lingo. That’s the only way we shall get anything out of him.’

  Ginger looked startled at the idea of putting the old creature into the aircraft, but agreed it was the thing to do if it could be managed. ‘He stinks like a load of herrings that has been left lying in the sun for a month,’ he said, wrinkling his nostrils. ‘I doubt if you’ll get him in, anyway.’

  ‘We haven’t time to walk him home. Let’s see if we can get him aboard.’

  Actually, they had no difficulty at all. The old native was enticed into the cabin by a handful of biscuits, following Ginger inside with no more concern than a well-trained dog. As with most primitive people an object like an aeroplane was so far beyond his ability to cope with it that it made no impression. A box of matches, the purpose of which would have been understood, would doubtless have been more in the nature of a miracle. Anyhow, once in the cabin he crouched in a corner apparently quite happy to catch the biscuits Ginger threw to him from time to time. Even when the aircraft took off the noise of the engines only disconcerted him for a moment. He may not have realized that he had left the ground.

  In a couple of minutes Biggles was back at the rest-house, where Algy and Bertie, having dragged the dead crocodile some distance away, were watching it disappear at fantastic speed into the capacious beaks of those vigilant and efficient scavengers, the vultures.

  Bertie started violently, took a quick pace back and adjusted his monocle when the old native bounced out of the cabin. ‘Oh, here, I say chaps, I wish you wouldn’t do things like that,’ he protested. ‘Where did you find Grandpa?’

  ‘In the village. He was on his own, lost or abandoned, so we decided to bring him along.’

  ‘And what are you going to do with him now you’ve got him here?’ inquired Algy cynically. ‘Keep him as a pet?’

  ‘For the time being, until I can find someone able to talk his gibberish.’

  ‘Will he stay?’

  ‘Feed him with bully beef and canned salmon and we may have a job to get rid of him. That hole in his face isn’t a mouth. It’s a human incinerator.’

  ‘Did you find anything else?’

  ‘Nothing of much interest. The Zinns have gone. The village has been evacuated.’

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘Slip down to Nabula to report the death of Sergeant I’Mobo, and, if possible, bring back someone who can talk Zinnish.’

  ‘Going by yourself?’

  ‘I might as well, unless you’d care to come.’

  ‘I’d rather do that than sit here twiddling my thumbs.’

  ‘All right. Let’s go. The sooner we’re there the sooner we shall be back.’

  ‘What do you want us to do while you’re away?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything you can do except keep an eye on things and see that Grandpa doesn’t give you the slip. I fancy he knows a thing or two if we can get him to talk.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Biggles and Algy took their places in the machine, which was soon on its way, heading for the nearest point of local administration, the government post at Nabula.

  CHAPTER 5

  GINGER TAKES A WALK

  Ginger and Bertie, from force of habit watching the aircraft on its way, were surprised to see it suddenly bank steeply and circle something on the ground. This done it went on, only to repeat the manoeuvre a few seconds later.

  ‘What on earth’s he doing?’ muttered Ginger, looking puzzled.

  ‘He must have spotted something on the ground—something with spots on, perhaps—if you twig what I mean. Ha! Joke!’

  ‘I doubt it. I can’t see him bothering to go down to look at a leopard, alive or dead. It must have been something, though. He seems to be going on now, anyway.’

  They turned to where the ancient African was squatting, apparently quite content, near the entrance to the compound.

  ‘The old boy seems to have made himself at home,’ observed Bertie. ‘How about tossing him a tin of bully to worry?’

  ‘Go ahead. You’ll have to open it for him.’ Ginger smiled. ‘I doubt if he carries a can opener.’

  This was done, and they watched, fascinated, the speed with which the old man scooped out the meat and stuffed it down his throat.

  ‘His mother forgot to teach him table manners,’ remarked Bertie, sadly. ‘Shall I carry on to see how many cans he can pack inside himself?’

  ‘Are you crazy? You’d be trying to fill a bottomless pit. If we don’t watch it he’ll eat us out of house and home.’

  ‘If the worst comes to the worst we could shoot him a hippo, or a brace of ostriches. Getting on the outside of a bally hippo should steady him up a bit.’

  ‘What we might do is catch him some fish. I’d bet he’d scoff the lot, head, tail, bones and all. They say there are plenty of fish in the lake.’

  ‘No bally fear. I’m not paddling in that puddle. That croc we bumped off wasn’t the only one.’

  ‘There’s no need to paddle. What’s wrong with that?’ Ginger nodded towards the dilapidated canoe.

  ‘Not for me. I like my boats without holes in ‘em. I wouldn’t take chances on this duckpond unless one had a copper bottom—I mean boat.’

  This casual banter ended abruptly when a distant explosion, quite a heavy one, sent a shudder across the placid surface of the lake. The hippos must have felt it for they submerged instantly. Bertie stared at Ginger. Ginger stared at Bertie. ‘What the dickens was that?’ he asked wonderingly.

  Hard on the words came a second, similar explosion.

  ‘Could it be thunder?’ suggested Bertie.

  ‘Nothing like it,’ declared Ginger. ‘Hey! Look at Grandpa. He knows.’

  The old native certainly
seemed to know what the explosions meant, for he had jumped to his feet and with wild cries went bounding into the water. Going in nearly up to the waist he leapt about striking at imaginary objects.

  ‘The old boy’s nuts,’ said Bertie, simply.

  ‘He may be nuts but he knows what he’s doing,’ asserted Ginger. ‘Look at him. That pantomime means something.’

  The old man was now going through the motions of throwing something ashore, whooping with delight.

  ‘What is he doing?’ asked Bertie. ‘You tell me. I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Obviously, he’s throwing things out of the water.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘What else is there in the water except fish? He’s catching fish, or kidding himself he is.’

  ‘Imaginary fish.’

  ‘They’re imaginary fish here, but they’ll be real enough where those explosions occurred.’

  Enlightenment dawned in Bertie’s eyes. ‘I’m with you, laddie.’

  ‘I’d say someone has just lobbed in a couple of grenades, or sticks of dynamite, somewhere down at the far end of the lake.’

  Bertie whistled softly. ‘So that’s it!’

  ‘In the ordinary way such an idea would never have occurred to me, but from the way Grandpa’s behaving I don’t see how it can mean anything else.’

  The old man had come ashore and was going through the motions of beating to death something that lay on the ground. Not one object, but several.

  ‘But where would these lads get dynamite?’ queried Bertie.

  ‘I can’t imagine ‘em getting any from anywhere. They wouldn’t know how to handle it if they did get some. But somebody’s got some sort of explosive; there’s no argument about that. There we go again,’ added Ginger tersely, as another sullen rumble reverberated. ‘That’s the direction.’ He pointed down the lake. ‘Pity we can’t see what’s going on, but the bend in the bank blocks the view. This is where we need the machine.’

  ‘How far away do you think this business is going on?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. Some miles. Sound carries far over water in still air. It must be near the far extremity of the lake. From the bend one should be able to see the smoke through binoculars.’

  ‘What’s the idea of bombing the poor bally fish?’

  ‘Food. Probably grub for the Zinns. That could be why they’ve left the village. That’s my guess, anyway. Grandpa knows all about it. Maybe he’s a bit old-fashioned and doesn’t approve this modern way of fishing. That could be why he kept out of it. We might be able to answer all these questions by walking as far as the bend. How far is it?’

  ‘Two or three miles. Biggles said we were not to leave camp.’

  ‘We needn’t both go. I could slip along and be back inside an hour. You could stay and take care of things and keep an eye on Grandpa—not that he seems to want to leave us.’

  ‘Biggles would be peeved if we lost him,’ said Bertie, dubiously. ‘And you might have to go farther than you think to get a clear view beyond the bend. However, that’s up to you, laddie.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go out of sight. You could watch me.’ Another idea occurred to Ginger. ‘I wonder if I could see round the bend if I pushed out a little way in that canoe?’

  Bertie looked shocked. ‘Oh I say, hold hard, old boy. That’s no craft for playing tag with crocs. One would only have to give it a tap and you’d be in the drink. Take my tip and forget it.’

  Ginger returned to his original plan. ‘Look. You stay here while I slip along. I’ll keep in sight. Whether I see anything or not I’ll come straight back. I think it’s worth trying.’

  ‘Fair enough, old boy, if that’s how you feel about it. But watch your step and don’t take any chances,’ said Bertie, seriously. ‘This is no place to have an argument with a hungry lion.’

  They returned to the house. Ginger slung the binoculars over his shoulder and with the Express rifle under his arm set off at a brisk pace along the flat, sandy shore of the lake. ‘Be seeing you in about an hour,’ he called back.

  For the first three-quarters of a mile he made good progress, for the going was open and easy. An occasional crocodile basking in the sun, slid into the water at his approach and the wildfowl moved out of his track. Otherwise he saw no sign of life. Passing the forest he kept a wary eye on it, but there was little undergrowth and he could see well into it. Here again he saw nothing to cause anxiety and he strode on purposefully.

  The ground underfoot now began to get boggy, which forced him a little farther from the water; but this was only a slight inconvenience and did no more than slow his progress somewhat. From time to time he looked back and saw Bertie standing in front of the rest-house watching him.

  This taking his eyes off the track might have cost him his life, for he nearly put his foot on one of the most deadly of all African snakes, a puff adder. He saw it just in time. Unable to stop he made a wild leap straight over the top of the fat, loathsome creature, and rushed on for some paces before stopping, with his heart palpitating, to recover from the shock. He looked back, but the snake had gone. Wiping the sweat of fright from his forehead he went on more cautiously, his confidence considerably shaken.

  In another quarter of an hour he judged he was half-way to his objective, which was of course the point where the bank that obstructed his view began to swing away. Everything was still quiet, almost uncannily so; and he could still see Bertie standing in front of the rest-house. After the incident of the snake he derived some comfort from it. He discovered, as others have, that it is one thing to have a partner on such an excursion, but a different matter to be alone in such conditions. However, he had no regrets.

  It was the noisy argument of feeding vultures that attracted his attention to something that lay ahead, slightly off his track, just beyond where the spur of the forest broke down to give way again to drier, more open country, dotted with tall ant-hills. The unsightly birds flopped away at his approach, some of them so gorged with food that they had difficulty in getting off the ground. They settled a short distance away to await his passing.

  Pausing in his stride to look at the carrion on which they had been feeding, he was about to move on when something about the gory mess of bones—there was little else—brought him to a halt. He had been so little interested in the dead beast that he had not even wondered what it was. But now he observed that it had no head. At least, he couldn’t see it. The rest of the bones were there, mostly picked clean; but where was the skull? The birds would hardly be able to eat that, he ruminated. Then it struck him as odd that there was not a shred of hair or hide by which the dead animal might be identified. He pondered the mystery. At first he thought the creature might have been a lion, but soon decided it was not large enough for that. The beast was more the size of a leopard, or a cheetah. But he could see no claws. A leopard! Could this be the one they had shot, the one that had so mysteriously disappeared? It seemed possible. After all, he reasoned, the vultures, carrion-eaters, hadn’t killed the creature, whatever it might be. Who had? It was unlikely that it had died a natural death. Their leopard had disappeared. Was this the carcase, or what was left of it? Who had moved it? For what reason? And what had happened to the head, and the claws?

  The more Ginger thought about it the more convinced he became that the leopard was the answer. He could think of nothing else. Had the animal been a deer or antelope of any sort there would have been horns, or antlers. Here the leopard had been carried, skinned, its head and feet cut off and the rest left to the vultures, hyenas, or jackals, should these equally efficient scavengers be in the district. Deciding there was nothing more to be learned by looking at the grisly remains he went on his way, the vultures crowding down again to finish their horrid repast before he had gone a dozen yards. Through his glasses he could see Bertie still gazing down the lake side.

  He walked on as fast as possible to make up for lost time. To his disappointment he had to go rather farther than he had expected to ge
t the view he wanted. However, soon after passing the abandoned village, where he saw not a soul, the bank began to bend round at a more acute angle and he decided it was time to make a reconnaissance. This he did from the top of a ten-foot-high ant-hill, and there before him stretched the view he wanted, the lake, ever narrowing, sweeping on to its long pointed end.

  Sitting on his elevated perch, glasses to eyes, he saw at a distance of two to three miles just such a scene for which the antics of Grandpa had prepared him. Out in the water, from knee to waist deep, was a line of dark spots that could only be Africans, presumably the Zinns. With a great deal of splashing they seemed to be driving unseen objects before them, from time to time lunging with their spears. The ends of the human line swung round to form a rough semi-circle. These had already reached dry land and were picking up burdens which Ginger could only suppose were fish. Standing on the shore as if directing operations was a figure in a suit of lightish material and wearing a hat.

  So this was it, thought Ginger. This was where the new style of fishing was going on. This was where the Zinns had gone.

  It needed no great mental effort to work out what was happening. Under the direction of the European the water was being bombed for the wholesale production of fish, the Zinns’ favourite food. The fish, stunned by the explosions, were floating about and the natives were securing them. So much was plain. What was not so easy to understand was why the European—Ginger assumed him to be a European—was doing this. Obviously he had a purpose. At least, it seemed highly improbable that he was going to this trouble and expense from sheer good nature. Why provide the Zinns with what for centuries they had been able to obtain for themselves? Certainly this new way of fishing would produce a greater bulk of fish than would have been possible by the old method, although in the end it would defeat its object by killing all the fish in the lake, large and small alike, or driving them into deeper water. No, pondered Ginger, the purpose behind this wholesale slaughter was not affection for the Zinns. It seemed more likely that the object was to provide them with food so that their energy could be employed in another direction.