Biggles and the Leopards of Zinn

by W E Johns

  Apart from anything else, he mused, this sort of fishing would in the long run turn out to be a false economy, and he was sure the British Government would not approve of it; for should the Zinns lose their fish diet on what else would they be able to subsist? They were not equipped for any other sort of life.

  Satisfied that he had succeeded in his mission, that he would have something to tell Biggles on his return, and thinking he had nothing more to learn, Ginger slid off his perch and was brushing the red dust off his clothes when a pair of waterbuck went tearing past in a manner that could only mean acute alarm. He stopped what he was doing. That the animals had been disturbed was evident. But by what? Naturally, his first thought was lions, or some other predator. True, he hadn’t seen any lions but he had heard distant roaring during the night so he knew there were some not far away.

  Alert, he listened, eyes active. Sliding the rifle forward ready for instant use he took a cautious peep round the side of the ant-hill to get sight of the ground from which the buck had come. This was merely a precaution. He wanted no trouble with lions, or anything else for that matter. He was now concerned only with getting back to Bertie. He was not really afraid of being attacked even if a lion was on the prowl. It would probably be either after the buck or on its way to water for a drink. But he was taking no chances.

  At first he saw nothing, but knowing with what remarkable ability a stalking lion can merge into the background, or slink into dry grass practically the same colour as himself, he did not hurry. Standing motionless himself, with his back to the ant-hill, he watched, quite certain that the buck would not have behaved as they had without good cause.

  When this cause was revealed it was one he hadn’t even considered. Suddenly through the still air came the sound of human voices, and a few moments later, from behind a clump of thorn, a little way inland, came the owners of them. It was a party of four men.

  CHAPTER 6

  TROUBLE BREWING

  Ginger sank slowly to a squatting position as the men came on.

  He saw that the leader was a dark-skinned man although nothing like dark enough to be a negro or a native of those parts. He was dressed European fashion; that is, open-necked khaki tunic-shirt, shorts, and slouch hat of similar colour. Behind him walked a stalwart negro, rifle on shoulder, presumably his gun-bearer. Next behind came another well-built native carrying a spear. Ginger had seen only one Zinn, Grandpa, but from what he had heard of them these coloured men were not of that tribe. The Zinns were small people.

  The fourth member of the party was certainly small, although little could be seen of him as he was dressed in what appeared to be odd pieces of hide or fur, decorated with sundry ornaments which, seen from a distance, might have been anything. He carried a short stabbing spear. The party was walking briskly on a straight line as if bound for a definite objective.

  Ginger’s first feeling was one of relief that the disturbers of the buck had been men and not a dangerous animal. Not that he would have been afraid had it turned out to be a lion; but a lion would have been a complication, and at that moment he didn’t want to be bothered with anything of that sort. As far as the men were concerned he assumed, not unnaturally, that although this was not considered to be good game country he had fallen in with a hunting party. The type of negro suggested they might have come from across the border, from the Congo. Were they poachers?

  The possibility caused him to remain motionless, and as he squatted there, watching, another doubt crept into his mind. The line taken by the party suggested it had come from the far end of the lake, although it was now cutting directly across the arc caused by the curve in the waterside. The men must have heard, if not seen, the fish being bombed. Why didn’t they stay there to watch? Or were they in fact members of the fish-bombing outfit? That seemed more likely. Where were they going in such a hurry? Raising his glasses and studying the man who brought up the rear of the party he decided he looked more like a witch-doctor than a hunter. Nothing had been said about the Zinns having witch-doctors. Where had he come from?

  With these doubts in his mind Ginger refrained from making his presence known, as had been his first, natural inclination. It was really the fact that the party had come from the far end of the lake that made him hesitate. It would, he decided, be prudent to watch for a little while to ascertain where the men were going, and what they intended to do, before he showed himself.

  The party strode on, not leaving its course and taking no notice of anything. If it kept on as it was going, Ginger observed, it would arrive at the rest-house. He allowed the men to get a little way ahead and then followed, moving from cover to cover and always keeping them in sight.

  The first halt came at the abandoned village. While the others stood still the witch-doctor type began a curious performance of running from hut to hut waving his arms and uttering cries which of course meant nothing to Ginger who, standing behind some scrub fifty or sixty yards away, had stopped to watch. He got an impression that this was some sort of ceremony, with incantations, perhaps to drive out evil spirits that were believed to have taken possession of the place. Was that why it had been abandoned?

  If this was in fact the case it was soon clear that something had gone wrong. Apparently the incantations hadn’t worked, for the witch-doctor rejoined his companions and a conference ensued. This lasted for some minutes, the witch-doctor, with much arm waving, either offering explanations or making suggestions. Some conclusions having been reached the march was resumed, and there was no longer any doubt about the objective. There was only one. The rest-house. There was, however, a diversion, and this came when the witch-doctor ran to one side and with his spear pointed to the now well-stripped carcase Ginger had stopped to look at on his way out. The vultures, having finished their grisly repast, had gone, and the thought occurred to Ginger that the witch-doctor, from his behaviour, must have known the beast, whatever it was, had been left there.

  This put a different complexion on the affair, and to Ginger a more sinister one. He was glad he had not been in a hurry to show himself. His trip was turning out to be more fruitful than he had hoped. Even so, the real purpose of the four-man expedition did not occur to him, and in the event it would have been remarkable if it had.

  The party went on, walking more quickly now, with Ginger still following at a fair distance. He could see Bertie moving about on the muddy beach in front of the rest-house, doing nothing in particular and obviously awaiting his return. Grandpa, evidently well fed, was squatting against the wall of the bungalow. The strangers must have seen all this, too, for after a brief halt and an exchange of words they went on, making no attempt at concealment, which here, in any case, the ground being more or less open, would have been difficult. It seemed to Ginger that the visitors, from the way they approached, were very sure of themselves. But that, perhaps in the circumstances, was not surprising.

  What did surprise him was the way Grandpa behaved when he saw the strangers approaching, although, as he realized later, there was no reason why he should have been surprised. As it happened the old man saw them before Bertie. Like a jack-in-the-box he had leapt to his feet and had shot into the rest-house with the alacrity of a rabbit bolting into its burrow on the sudden appearance of a dog. This exhibition of alarm, or fear, did not of course escape Ginger’s notice, and he wondered at the reason for it. It still did not occur to him that the old Zinn was the object of the visit first to the village, and now the bungalow. However, this was soon to be revealed.

  Meanwhile, Bertie had seen the strangers, and greeted them with a breezy: ‘Hello, there. Come in. What can I do for you? Like a drink?’

  The only answer was a surly nod.

  Ginger went closer, but still did not show himself. A feeling began to creep over him that all was not well; that there was something odd about the way the strangers were behaving. Caution prompted him to wait for them to show their hand before he joined the company. All he did was move a little nearer, well within earsho
t, and take up a position just inside the compound from which he could listen and watch without being seen. So far none of the strangers had looked round, but now the leader did so, taking in the scene. The reason for this was disclosed by his first words.

  ‘You here alone?’ he inquired, in a tone of voice that did not fit with a pose of nonchalance. At least, so Ginger thought. He was now able to have a good look at the man for the first time. He had the features of a European, but his skin was dark, although only to the extent that the colour might have been produced by long exposure to the African sun. He had spoken with a slight accent, but this was not enough to convey a hint of what his nationality might be. However, it was sufficiently pronounced to suggest he had not been born in the United Kingdom.

  Bertie smiled and answered the question frankly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m on my own at the moment. My pals are away, but I’m expecting them back. Were you looking for something?’

  ‘We’ve come for the old man.’

  Bertie’s expression changed. ‘What old man?’

  ‘The old nigger I saw run into the house.’

  Bertie looked puzzled. ‘You say you want him?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What do you want him for?’

  ‘To take him home.’

  ‘Where’s home?’

  ‘His village. With his people. That’s where he belongs.’

  ‘He’s all right here.’

  ‘He’ll be happier with us.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘That hardly lines up with the way he bolted when he saw you coming.’

  ‘Let’s not argue about that. I want him.’

  Bertie was still smiling but his voice had hardened. ‘I’m afraid you can’t have him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s ours.’

  ‘What do you want him for?’

  ‘We like him. We’re keeping him for a house-pet.’

  The stranger glared. ‘Are you fooling?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. Grandpa belongs to us.’

  ‘How can he belong to you?’

  ‘Because I say so.’

  ‘Because you say so.’

  ‘That’s right,’ confirmed Bertie, brightly.

  The stranger looked puzzled. ‘You’re new to Africa, I guess.’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Don’t you know you’re not allowed to hold a native against his will?’

  ‘He likes it here.’

  ‘He belongs to us.’

  ‘Then you should have taken better care of him and not allowed him to slip his collar. He can go where he likes. As he seems to like it here, here he stays. That’s all there is to it.’ Bertie gave his monocle a brisk rub.

  The visitor began to lose patience, or else he must have decided Bertie was a complete fool. ‘Come on, hand him over,’ he ordered, harshly.

  ‘Don’t you talk to me like that,’ replied Bertie, calmly, but with an edge on his voice.

  Apparently the stranger was not prepared to waste any more time. He spoke sharply to his attendant who carried the spear. The man stepped forward towards the door of the bungalow.

  Bertie barred his way. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he inquired, coldly.

  The black side-stepped to pass him, but again Bertie moved in front of him. ‘Keep out,’ he said quietly, but firmly.

  The negro, to give the man his due, did not attempt to force a passage. He looked back at his employer for instructions.

  ‘Get him,’ snapped the man, himself stepping forward.

  ‘This is British Government property,’ said Bertie. ‘You realize what you’re telling this man to do?’

  Without looking round the man to whom he spoke put out his right hand. The gun-bearer knew what to do. He put the rifle in it. The man brought the rifle to the ‘ready’ position. The safety catch snicked as it was slipped off. ‘Get out of my way,’ he rasped.

  Bertie did not move.

  ‘You’re asking for it.’ The man raised the rifle a little higher.

  This may or may not have been bluff. Ginger didn’t know. But he decided it was time to interfere. Walking forward he said sharply: ‘All right. That’s enough.’

  At the sound of his voice the hostile party spun round, all eyes staring. ‘Where the hell have you come from?’ growled the leader.

  Ginger answered: ‘What does it matter? Clear out. And while you’re at it you’d better get back to where you came from.’

  Bertie smiled whimsically, and took the opportunity to take his revolver from his pocket. He did not threaten with it, but allowed it to hang by his side at the length of his arm.

  Nobody spoke. The situation remained tense for a few seconds, presumably while the leader of the opposition turned things over in his mind. In the end apparently he decided it was not the moment to try force, for he called off the black spearman, handed the rifle to his bearer, and turning about walked away in the direction from which he had come. The others followed. None of them looked round.

  Bertie and Ginger watched the party without a word until it was at a safe distance. Then Bertie said: ‘That fellow’s a stinker.’

  ‘Are you telling me!’ agreed Ginger.

  ‘Did you see what happened?’

  ‘Everything. I’d been following that lot for half an hour.’

  ‘I was wondering where you’d got to. They wanted to snaffle poor old Grandpa.’

  ‘I know. They searched the village for him.’

  ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘Not much. I’m pretty sure they’re part of the gang operating at the far end of the lake. They came from that direction. That half-caste, that’s what he looked like to me, knew we were here. He must have seen the plane come in. I’d say Grandpa knows something and they don’t want him to talk. Before we came it didn’t matter about him being alone in the village, but seeing us come they were afraid we might find him. That’s why they decided to collect him.’

  Bertie nodded. ‘That’s about the English of it, laddie. What are they doing down the end of the lake?’

  ‘As we guessed, fishing.’

  ‘They must want a lot of fish.’

  ‘It’d take a lot to feed the whole tribe of Zinns. But they didn’t come here just to fish, that’s certain.’

  Bertie cocked an ear as from the distance came the purr of aero engines. ‘Sounds like Biggles coming back.’

  Ginger frowned. ‘Then he can’t have been to Nabula. He couldn’t have got there and back in the time.’ He listened. ‘Engines sound all right, so that can’t be the trouble.’

  ‘Well, here he is, any old how,’ asserted Bertie as the Gadfly swung into sight.

  They watched the machine land, taxi to the shore, and, dropping its wheels, run on to its previous parking place. The engines died. Biggles jumped down. His eyes went from Ginger’s rifle to Bertie’s revolver.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘We had a spot of bother with a nasty-looking piece of work who arrived from the far end of the lake,’ replied Ginger.

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He came to collect Grandpa. There was a party of ‘em.’

  ‘Did you let them take him?’

  ‘Not on your life. The thing fizzled out when it came to a showdown. I’ll tell you all about it presently.’

  By this time Algy had got out of the aircraft and had turned to watch another man jump down.

  Ginger stared, for he was as strange an individual as he had ever seen emerge from an aircraft, except, possibly, Grandpa.

  CHAPTER 7

  BIGGLES DECIDES

  The man who stepped down from the aircraft was a native African. Of that there was no doubt. And from a fuzz of sparse grey hair on his chin, and the many wrinkles graven on his face, one of advanced age. There was nothing remarkable about that. It was the clothes he wore and the way he carried himself that fascinated Ginger.

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sp; On his head, at a jaunty angle, he carried the remains of what had once been a fez. Originally red, it was now almost black from long usage. The jacket and shorts he wore had clearly been a uniform of sorts; but that was long ago. They were shrunken from years of wear in all weathers, threadbare from continual washing, patched and mended in a score of places. For footwear he sported what in their early days had been a pair of brown and white golf shoes.

  That the old man saw nothing odd in this was evident from the way he carried himself. He moved briskly and with the serious deportment of a guardsman on parade. After marching for a few paces he halted facing the remains of the flag hanging limply on its staff. There he jumped to attention, saluted, and then stood ‘at ease’.

  Bertie adjusted his monocle. ‘Jolly good,’ he murmured. Looking at Biggles he went on: ‘Where did you pick him up?’

  ‘On the way to Nabula.’

  ‘He’s been a soldier.’

  ‘Obviously. And, I’d say, a good one.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Charlie.’

  ‘Charlie what?’

  ‘Just Charlie. That’s what he told me, and as far as I’m concerned it’s enough.’

  ‘How did you collect him? You can’t have been to Nabula.’ Ginger asked the question.

  ‘No. I didn’t get that far. About half-way there I overtook a safari. From its line of march I took it to be the one that had brought Sergeant Abdullah here, now on its way back to headquarters. It was. As there was plenty of open ground I took a chance and landed to ask a few questions. As you see, I’ve brought one of them back because he can talk the Zinn language. He’s not employed regularly at Nabula but goes out with safaris as an odd-job man because he likes it.’

  ‘Where did he do his soldiering?’

  ‘Served his time in the K.A.R.1 When he retired he was for years gun-bearer to Colonel Black, who you may remember was killed some time ago by a wounded buffalo near Lake Chad. Since then, as I say, he’s done odd jobs as guide and interpreter. He speaks pretty good English and goodness knows how many native dialects. I thought he’d be useful in many ways so I brought him along. He’s now on our pay roll.’