Biggles and the Leopards of Zinn

by W E Johns

  There were, of course, occasional sounds. Once, the distant roaring of a lion. Frequently a splash in the lake, made most likely by a hippo or a crocodile coming ashore. Generally, however, as the moon sank, silence reigned.

  It was about four a.m., the hour when vitality is at its lowest ebb, that Ginger’s roving eyes settled on a small dark patch, low on the ground, inside the compound, near the far side. It was intangible, no more than a blur. He couldn’t remember seeing it before.

  Had it been there all the time? A prey to doubt and indecision he stared, but could make nothing of it. He closed his eyes for a moment to rest them and stared again. The object was still there. But was it in exactly the same place? He hadn’t seen the thing move, but he had a feeling it was farther inside the compound than it had been when first he had noticed it.

  He was well aware of the tricks the imagination can play in such conditions and for that reason he hesitated to call Bertie; but he found his heart beating faster and instinctively slid the gun forward a trifle, his right hand round the trigger guard. For a second or two he contemplated investigating and so settling all doubt; and the reason why he did not do this was because he could not imagine anything getting past him into the compound without his seeing it. He was sure he hadn’t been asleep.

  He watched, his entire attention riveted on the object. It seemed longer than it had been—or was that imagination? Had the thing moved again? He couldn’t decide. The trouble was, with the moon fast dying the eerie light it gave was weak and deceptive. The hard shadows it had thrown when it was riding high had gone, leaving everything blurred, indistinct, uncertain. Again he considered calling Bertie, but naturally he was loath to arouse everyone for what might turn out to be a false alarm.

  He continued to watch. He stared until his eyes ached, but still he could not make up his mind about the thing. The only movement he made was to curl his fingers gently round the triggers of the gun. Again the feeling crept over him that the thing had moved. It was extraordinary. He could not have sworn that he had actually seen it move but he became convinced that it was nearer to the long covered place where the two Africans were sleeping. He was almost certain that it was longer than it had been. Could it be a crocodile that had crept in through a gap in the brushwood fence that surrounded the compound? Biggles had spoken of crocodiles coming ashore at night and dragging natives out of their huts. It was certainly not a prowling jackal or hyena, which would have made more definite movements. Anyway, he reasoned, if it was a wild beast of some sort, why hadn’t it stalked him?

  Unable to stand the strain any longer he had just made up his mind to walk forward and so put an end to doubt when to his ears came a sound the like of which he had not previously heard. It reminded him of the faint whimpering of a frightened child. It came from somewhere close at hand, and presently his ears tracked it to the open shelter under which Grandpa and Charlie were sleeping. The sound continued, unbroken, increasing slightly in volume, causing Ginger’s nerves to tingle and his mouth to go dry. What was it? He could think of no animal that made such a noise. In it he detected a blood-chilling quality of terror.

  Convinced now that something was wrong, but still unable to determine what it was, he rose slowly, very slowly, to his feet, pursing his lips to whistle Bertie to the spot. The whistle died before it was born, for with his eyes still on the thing he distinctly saw it move. Without a sound it had slid forward over the ground in the manner of a snake; and its direction was towards the shelter under which the two natives were sleeping.

  He waited no longer. Bringing the gun to his shoulder he took aim. For a second he waited, trying in the poor light to align the barrels on what was no more than an indefinite streak on the ground, a little darker than the rest. Then he squeezed the trigger of the right barrel.

  The report of the heavy weapon shattered the silence like the end of the world. Blended with it came a wild scream. At first, momentarily blinded by the flash, Ginger could see nothing. Then he made out the figure of a man leaping about in convulsions. Then, appearing to recover, it raced towards the far side of the compound where against the dark background it was lost to sight. Ginger blazed the second barrel at the spot where it had disappeared and quickly slipped in two more cartridges. As it happened he did not need them, although it was only by the merest fluke that he did not shoot Charlie who burst out of the near end of the shelter. He recognized him just in time by his clothes.

  Bertie came running up, saying: ‘What is it?’ Hard on his heels came Biggles and Algy, both in pyjamas, revolvers in hand.

  ‘What goes on?’ snapped Biggles, probing the compound with an electric torch.

  ‘I shot a man,’ answered Ginger. ‘I hit him but didn’t kill him, although he may die later. I plastered him pretty hard but the range was a bit wide. I gave him the left barrel as he seemed to dive at the far fence.’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘I saw a movement inside the compound. I couldn’t make out what it was but it was creeping towards the shelter. Somebody was crying. I think it must have been Grandpa, who had seen the thing, so I let drive.’

  ‘Is Grandpa all right?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t been to see. Charlie’s here.’

  ‘We’d better have a look at Grandpa.’ Biggles strode to the shelter.

  They found the old man unharmed as far as actual injuries went, but he appeared to be in a coma, lying on his back, panting, eyes showing the whites.

  ‘He’ll be all right presently,’ decided Biggles. ‘Here you see what superstitious terror can do. He saw death creeping up on him but was no more able to help himself than a rabbit fixed by a stoat. That foul witch-doctor, or one of his men, was after him. Let’s have a look round. Where was the man when you shot him?’

  ‘Here, flat on the ground.’ Ginger pointed.

  The torch revealed a spatter of blood, a crude native slim-bladed knife, and what at first sight appeared to be a leopard’s paw. Biggles held it up between a finger and thumb. ‘So it was a leopard-man,’ he muttered. ‘Now we know. He would have used the knife, then the claws to hide the wound and make it look like the work of a leopard. See how the paw has been made to fit the hand like a glove. The devil probably wore two, but dropped this one in his hurry to get away. This is a fresh piece of hide. I’d wager it’s one of the feet of the beast we shot. If I’m right we know now why it was carried away and skinned. We were being watched when we shot the animal.’

  ‘We saw something else moving on the edge of the forest,’ reminded Algy.

  “That must have been someone spying on us. Where did the man disappear, Ginger?’

  ‘Over here.’ Ginger led the way to the spot.

  The mystery of the man’s entrance into the compound, without passing through the gateway, was at once explained. At ground level a small hole, just large enough to permit the introduction of a human body, had been cut neatly through the brushwood.

  ‘Are you going round to see if he’s outside?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘Not me,’ answered Biggles, emphatically. ‘I’m not asking for a spear in my back. If he’s still there he can stay there until it’s light enough for us to see what we’re doing, although I imagine he’d have friends handy to help him away. Good thing you kept your eyes open, Ginger, or Grandpa would have had this knife in his ribs. Let’s see how he is. You see how deadly this mumbo-jumbo stuff can be.’

  They found Grandpa sitting up, shivering as though he had been stricken with ague. They took him, Charlie helping him to walk, to the bungalow, where a tot of brandy from the medicine chest speeded his recovery. But his teeth so chattered that he was unable to talk. Not that he could have said much that was not already known.

  ‘Are you going back to bed?’ Ginger asked Biggles.

  ‘It isn’t worth it. It’ll be daylight in an hour. I’ve had all the sleep I need. Put on the kettle for a pot of coffee. I don’t think our leopard-fancying friends will try anything more to-night, but you migh
t finish your guard, Bertie, in case....’

  CHAPTER 9

  FACE TO FACE

  As soon as it was daylight a search was made for the man Ginger had wounded but he could not be found. A few dry spots of blood where he had left the compound, and a spot here and there beyond, showed that he had managed to get away and which way he had gone. Biggles said he was not surprised. The range was too long for the pellets of the shotgun to kill. They might penetrate the skin but not much more than that. The shot would have spread, too, and even if Ginger’s aim had been accurate not many would have struck the man. Still, they would sting viciously, which was no doubt why the man had flung himself about on being struck.

  After an early breakfast they returned to the spot and Charlie did his best to follow the trail. But it soon petered out and he had to admit he was beaten. All he could say was, there had been more than one man. There had been at least two. So it seemed the intruder had an accomplice who had waited outside.

  ‘Which means the business had been properly organized,’ muttered Biggles. ‘Good thing we kept guard, wasn’t it?’ he added with a wry smile.

  ‘You still intend to go down the lake and ask these thugs what their game is?’ questioned Ginger.

  ‘After what happened last night I’m more than ever determined to find out what they’re doing,’ declared Biggles, grimly.

  They had started to walk back to the bungalow when a distant rifle shot cracked through the thin air. It was followed instantly by a shout from Algy who had stayed in camp to tidy up after breakfast. Biggles broke into a run, for they were still behind the compound; but before he had turned the corner there was another shot and another shout. Algy was climbing into the aircraft. ‘They’re shooting at the machine,’ he yelled. ‘That first shot hit it.’

  ‘Get it away,’ shouted Biggles. ‘Go anywhere, but take it away — round the bend where they can’t see it.’

  There was another shot as the engines sprang to life, throwing up a cloud of dust as the Gadfly swung round to the water. Another minute and it was off, heading down the side of the lake to get out of danger. The others heard the engines cut and knew that it had landed out of sight.

  Biggles’ face was pale with anger as he stared along the shore of the lake.

  ‘I can’t see anybody,’ said Ginger.

  ‘He must be just inside the forest.’

  ‘What’s the idea?’

  ‘Trying to scare us off. They know we can’t afford to lose the machine.’

  ‘But suppose they did put it out of action? What good would that do them?’

  ‘We should be stuck here. Instead of taking us an hour to get to Nabula, on our feet we’d be lucky to do it in a week. Maybe they think that in that time they could liquidate us, either here or on the way to Nabula.’

  ‘The point is, what do we do about it, old boy?’ put in Bertie.

  ‘Obviously I’m not standing for this. If they want to play the rough way that’s how they can have it. Here comes Algy. I’d better wait to hear what he has to say.’

  ‘Then you still intend to go down the lake?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  They waited until Algy ran up.

  Biggles’ first question was: ‘What have you done with the machine?’

  ‘I’ve run it on to a bit of a beach. I think it should be all right there.’

  ‘Are you sure they were shooting at it?’

  ‘The first shot hit it. I heard it smack into the engine cowling. It doesn’t seem to have done any harm.’

  ‘I see. Well, I’m going down to ask them what they’re doing. I’ll take Ginger with me. Charlie had better come, too, in case we see the Zinns. He’ll be able to talk to them. When you see us reach the forest, after which I doubt if they’ll do any more shooting, you can bring the machine back here. Park it on the far side of the bungalow. They won’t be able to see it then from where they are. After that stand guard until I come back. Bertie will be with you.’

  ‘Do you mean you’re going to walk down?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘That’s asking for trouble. What if you don’t come back?’

  ‘If we’re not back by four o’clock fly straight to Nabula and report what’s happened. Come on, Ginger. Charlie, come with me. I want you.’ Biggles turned away.

  ‘Aren’t you going to take a rifle?’

  ‘I’ve a gun in my pocket.’

  ‘That won’t be much good if you run foul of a lion.’

  ‘True enough. I’d better take the Express. Charlie can carry it. He knows the drill.’

  ‘Suppose we’re attacked here while you’re away?’

  ‘Do what you like. Don’t on any account allow anyone near the machine, or the house. Shoot if necessary. You can reckon anyone you see will be an enemy. I don’t think that’s likely to happen because we should meet anyone coming this way.’

  Bertie looked worried. ‘You’re taking a chance.’

  Biggles smiled faintly. ‘When we jib at taking chances it’ll be time for us to retire.’

  ‘Too true, old boy, too true.’

  Biggles turned away. ‘Come on, Ginger. Let’s get mobile. We’ll settle this business one way or the other.’ He set off along the side of the lake, Charlie close behind him with the rifle on his shoulder, and Ginger bringing up the rear. There was no shooting, nor any sign of a human being, but as they neared the belt of timber Ginger regarded it askance. However, nothing happened, and the little party strode on towards its objective.

  ‘’Ware snakes,’ warned Ginger, when they came to the softer ground. ‘This is where I nearly put my foot on a puff adder.’

  They saw no snakes. The Zinn village was still silent, deserted.

  When they reached the central point of the bank, where it curved inwards like a bow and a new vista opened before them, they saw, some distance ahead of them and walking in the same direction, three men, one dressed in European clothes and two natives.

  ‘They saw us coming and decided to go back to their camp,’ remarked Biggles, without pausing in his stride.

  ‘You notice they’ve been working all along here, digging holes,’ observed Ginger.

  ‘When we know what they’re digging for we shall know the lot,’ returned Biggles.

  The scene ahead now began to take shape. It could be seen that the end of the lake, still some way ahead, tailed off in a long narrowing point of reeds behind which the ground began to rise towards true equatorial forest, dark and menacing. The ground at this end of the lake appeared to be more fertile, for there was a good deal of scrub.

  Biggles strode on.

  As they drew nearer, perspiring in the heat of the sun as it gathered strength, details could be observed. Conspicuous a little way back from the water was a large white object that could only be a tent. Moving about, apparently working under the directions of a man in a slouch hat, were several natives, presumably Zinns since they were the only tribe in the region.

  ‘Well, there they are,’ said Biggles, without stopping.

  Presently they saw the three men who had been walking in front of them reach the encampment. The leader joined the man in the slouch hat, whereupon they stood together looking back along the lake-side, a position that was maintained until Biggles walked up — that is, the two Europeans standing together, a small group of tall, spear-armed negroes close behind them, and still farther behind, crowded together, a much larger group of natives which Ginger thought must be the whole tribe of Zinns. There, too, conspicuous in a leopard skin draped round him, squatting in front of the tall negroes, was the witchdoctor. They all waited in silence.

  Ginger now saw the second European for the first time. He really was a white man. He judged his age to be between fifty and sixty. Stockily built, broad-shouldered, a bushy untrimmed beard, turning grey, hiding the lower part of a weather-beaten face, he looked a strong character. He stood with his legs apart and his bare arms folded across his chest. His expression was hard and calculating. His natio
nality might have been anything, although presently, when he spoke, his English was fluent.

  Near him stood his darker-skinned companion, the man who had walked in front of Biggles’ party down the side of the lake. His expression was frankly hostile. Ginger had of course seen him before, as this was the one who had tried to take Grandpa from the rest-house.

  Biggles walked straight up to them and opened the conversation. ‘What do you mean by shooting at my camp?’ he demanded, curtly.

  The white man turned to his companion. ‘Did you shoot at them?’

  ‘Me? No. Why should I? I fired a couple o’ shots at a running waterbuck, which is what I went out to get. If the shots went near the bungalow it was an accident.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Biggles, succinctly.

  ‘You callin’ me a liar?’

  ‘I am.’

  The half-caste started forward but his companion held him back.

  ‘Now let’s get down to facts,’ went on Biggles. ‘What are you two doing here?’

  The white man answered. ‘Who the hell do you think you are to come here asking questions?’

  ‘I’m a British police officer if that’s of interest to you.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘All right. Let it pass, but I’ve warned you. Who are you?’

  ‘Mind your own business.’

  ‘This happens to be my business. What are your names and where have you come from?’

  The white man scowled. ‘Look, mister, I don’t care who you are or what you are, but I’ll tell you this. You’re asking too many questions. My advice to you is to get back to where you came from.’

  ‘And that’s my advice to you.’ Biggles pointed at the Zinns, who were standing watching, wearing those flat blank expressions natives can assume when faced with something beyond their understanding. ‘Did you bring those people here? Force them out of their village?’

  ‘We ain’t forced ‘em to do anything.’

  ‘Then why are they here?’

  The white man grinned sourly. ‘I reckon because they like it.’