by W E Johns
‘No, although that was a mistake in that it fooled Ducard into thinking only of diamonds. Maybe the fellow thought it wasn’t necessary to mention bauxite, supposing Ducard would recognize the stuff when he saw it. But what’s the use of guessing? We shall never know the truth of that. Not that it matters.’
‘Would bauxite have been any use to Ducard? I mean, could he have handled it?’
‘Not himself. But he could have applied for a concession which, had it been granted, he could have sold to an operating company for a fortune. Either through ignorance or from being too greedy he missed the boat. But it’s time we had something to eat. I’m getting a bit tired of bully, biscuit and rice, so unless these troublemakers do clear out we’ll shoot one of these ducks or geese, or whatever they are, to see if they’re worth eating. The Zinns seemed tickled to death with that roan antelope I got for ‘em so we might keep them happy by getting some more meat. No doubt they’d be glad to have anything in that line. If I know anything they won’t be particular about what it is.’
‘What beats me,’ said Bertie, ‘is how the old hippos float about in water fairly crawling with crocs—whoppers, too, some of ‘em.’
‘A croc of any size would be a fool to take on a hippo, and if you look at a hippo’s mouth when he yawns you can see why,’ answered Biggles. ‘With a mouth full of teeth such as he has a hippo could bite a croc clean in halves. They’ve been known to do that to a canoe.’
‘Let’s hope they don’t try any games of that sort with the machine when we’re in it,’ said Bertie, anxiously.
‘Let’s hope they don’t try it whether we’re in it or not,’ returned Biggles. ‘They’ll have an opportunity presently, if that’s how they feel. When I’ve had a bite to eat I’ll fly down to the far end of the lake to see what goes on. I don’t feel like walking it. We might as well let them see we’re still here. They should be gone by tomorrow. When I’m satisfied they have really gone we can fly Charlie down to Nabula and then go home.’
After a quick meal Biggles took the machine out, and with Ginger beside him in the cockpit made the short trip, flying very low, to the enemy camp.
‘They’re still there, anyway,’ observed Ginger.
There was not much to see. The tent was still standing, but as Biggles pointed out, unless they intended moving off that day they would need it to sleep in that night. It would be the last thing to be packed up. Lying in front of it were a number of bundles, camp equipment and the like, made up as loads for porterage, so it did look as if Ducard intended to depart. A small group of coloured porters could be seen near at hand. The witch-doctor sat on the ground in front of them.
‘What are they doing?’ said Biggles, in a puzzled voice. ‘I should have thought those bearers would have something to do instead of loafing there, doing nothing.’
‘I think they’re watching Ducard and his pal. They appear to be having an argument.’
The two leaders had emerged from the tent. For a few moments they stood looking up at the aircraft, now circling, and then resumed a conversation, as it seemed from their actions, with some heat.
‘They can argue their heads off as far as I’m concerned,’ declared Biggles, as he turned for home. ‘As long as they clear out I don’t care what they do. To be on the safe side I’ll spend the night with the Zinns. It’s my turn.’
CHAPTER 13
MURDER MOST FOUL
The night passed quietly.
In accordance with his declared intention Biggles spent the hours of darkness in the Zinn village, although as a matter of detail Algy insisted on going with him. If this was to be their last watch, he argued, it didn’t matter if they didn’t get any sleep. This, of course, was assuming the enemy retired across the border.
Nothing happened.
Biggles surprised Algy by saying he was not entirely happy about this. He admitted that he had fully expected the invaders to make a last effort to get them out of the way. The fact that nothing had been done made him suspicious.
Algy asked him why.
‘Because having seen that lot, and they looked tough to me, it amazes me that after all their trouble here they should just walk away like a lot of lambs.’
‘Ducard said he was fed up. He said he was going.’
‘I know he did. But remember, he was speaking for himself. It doesn’t follow that his nasty-looking partner would take kindly to the idea. That goes for the witchdoctor and his leopard-men. Ducard practically admitted that his partner, who was responsible for the introduction of the black gang, was boss of the show.’
This conversation took place just as the first grey streak of dawn was showing through the usual mist, and they were about to move off in the direction of the bungalow when from far off down the lake, in the direction of the enemy camp, came what was unmistakably a rifle shot.
‘What are they doing?’ said Algy.
‘Probably shooting some fresh meat for the journey,’ surmised Biggles. He went on: ‘While I’m here I feel inclined to walk along as far as the bend and from the top of one of those ant-hills that Ginger used see if they go.’
‘They may not go until later.’
‘That would be unusual. Most safaris start early to cover as much ground as possible before the heat of the day. I shall know if they’re gone—that is, as soon as the mist lifts.’
‘How?’
‘They won’t leave the tent behind. It’s a conspicuous mark. If it’s still there I shall know they’re still there, too.’
‘Okay. I’m with you. Let’s go.’
They set off down the side of the lake, followed at a respectful distance by Grandpa, who seemed to have formed an affection for them. He moved in closer when the party encountered the usual game that had been to the water to drink.
‘How about some meat for the Zinns?’ suggested Algy.
‘I won’t shoot anything now,’ said Biggles. ‘If Ducard hears shooting he may wonder what’s going on. I may get a chance for a shot on the way back.’
The party proceeded, watchful for big game of a dangerous nature, but none was seen. On arriving at the ant-hills they had to wait for a little while for the mist to rise. When it did they learned what they wanted to know. The tent was no longer there.
‘They’ve gone,’ said Algy.
‘Good,’ returned Biggles. “That saves us a lot of trouble. We might as well get back to the bungalow.’
On the way back, as Biggles had hoped, he got a shot at a belated waterbuck, and, to Grandpa’s delight, killed it. The old man raced on ahead presumably to give the tribe the good news. They were at their daily task of fishing. From this some of them broke away to bring in the more desirable meat. Biggles and Algy did not stop, but pressed on home to find Ginger and Bertie beginning to get anxious at their delay in returning.
‘They’ve gone,’ Biggles told them, cheerfully.
‘So what do we do?’ asked Ginger.
‘Fly Charlie down to Nabula, then see about getting home. I shall probably fly down to the far end of the lake to make sure those people really have gone, and are not hiding somewhere near in the hope of fooling us.’
‘Okay,’ replied Ginger. ‘Let’s get cracking before these infernal mosquitoes tear the last flesh from my bones.’
‘Let’s have some breakfast first,’ requested Biggles. ‘There’s no hurry.’
It was an hour before Biggles, taking Ginger with him, climbed into the aircraft, and keeping well clear of the hippos took off for the short run to the end of the lake, leaving Algy and Bertie to start packing their things at the rest-house ready for departure. As the Air Commodore had anticipated at the outset, the great advantage of having a plane on the job, as opposed to having to work on foot, was now demonstrated, for the aircraft would be able to cover as much ground in half an hour as would occupy a safari for a week. In fact, the entire area, with the exception of the forests, could be surveyed almost at a glance.
And at a glance, even before the site of the ca
mp was reached, it could be observed that it had been abandoned. The tent had gone. There was not a soul in sight. No smoke arose from the black ashes of the camp fire. There was not a movement of any sort. Even the few vultures that had taken possession sat motionless.
‘Well, that seems to be it,’ said Biggles, after making two circuits. ‘Apparently Ducard meant what he said. If they’ve taken a course west through the forest we shan’t be able to see them, of course; but I’ll climb a bit for a general look round before we go back.’
Ginger was staring down. ‘Just a minute,’ he requested. ‘I can see something down there, but I can’t quite make out what it is.’
‘Where are you looking?’
‘Close to where the tent was pitched. Near where those vultures are standing.’
‘You’re right,’ said Biggles in a curious tone of voice, after inspecting the spot Ginger had indicated. ‘It might be a bundle of rubbish, rags, or something of that sort, but from its shape it looks mightily like a body.’
‘In European clothes.’
‘Yes. If it is a body it must be either Ducard or his partner. Is that why those vultures are standing there, I wonder? Are they waiting...’
‘Waiting for what?’
‘The person—if it is somebody—to die. If that is a body the man must still be alive or the vultures would be working on it. I don’t understand this. I think we’d better go down and have a look.’
So saying Biggles cut the engines, sideslipped off some height, landed on the water and ran on to the bank as close as possible to the object of their interest. Having made the machine secure in shallow water, nose pointing towards the open lake ready for departure, they walked the short distance to where the tent had been pitched.
‘It’s a man,’ said Biggles, even before they reached the spot. He quickened his stride. ‘It’s Ducard!’ The vultures, seeing themselves deprived of a meal, squawked their protests as they moved farther away.
The body was lying face downwards, forehead resting on an arm.
‘You watch the forest in case this is a trap,’ Biggles told Ginger, cogently, nodding towards the dark belt of primeval forest that ran in a long line no great distance away. He turned the body over to reveal on the front of the shirt an ugly stain.
‘He was shot all right,’ he went on. ‘In the chest.’ He lay down and put an ear on the man’s heart. After listening for a moment he rose quickly. ‘He isn’t dead. Fetch the brandy flask. I doubt if we shall be able to save his life but we may bring him round long enough for him to tell us who did it.’
‘That must have been the shot we heard,’ said Ginger.
‘You said you thought they were out after meat for the journey.’
‘That was it. Get the brandy.’
Ginger ran to the machine and returned with the flask kept for an emergency.
With some difficulty they managed to get a little of the spirit between the man’s lips and teeth.
‘That’s enough,’ said Biggles. ‘Give him too much and we may drown him.’
Ducard’s eyelids fluttered. Presently the eyes opened. At first they were vague, glassy; but as the potent spirit did its work life slowly returned to them.
‘Who did it?’ asked Biggles, in a thin, distinct voice.
At first, although he seemed to have understood the question, Ducard had difficulty in answering. His lips moved but no sound came. But as life flickered more strongly he managed to get out the one word: ‘Partner.’
‘Batoun?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did he do it?’
‘Had a row. He wanted—to stay. I said—go. Not enough—food—get back—to coast.’
‘And he wanted it all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Gone.’
‘Which way?’
‘West. Through forest. Way we—came. He will—come back—for the diamonds.’
‘Although you told him there were no diamonds.’
‘Yes. He not believe. I had—a little gold—in belt. He took it.’
There was a trickle of blood from Ducard’s lips.
Biggles stood up and spoke quietly to Ginger. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said helplessly. ‘He’s got it in the lungs. Hasn’t a hope. He’ll die whatever we do.’
‘No chance of getting him to Nabula?’
‘Not an earthly. I doubt if there’s a doctor there, anyway.’
‘Bad business.’
Biggles nodded.
Ducard coughed, bringing up more blood. Suddenly speaking in a clear voice he said: ‘Get out. That witchdoctor will come back with a crowd to kill you. You kicked him.’
That was all. The dying man’s eyes closed again in unconsciousness. A little while later he ceased to breathe.
‘He’s gone,’ said Biggles, in a sombre voice. ‘That’s where diamonds have got him.’
‘What are we going to do? We can’t leave him lying here.’
‘No. We can’t do that. There isn’t much point in taking the body to the rest-house.’
‘We haven’t even a spade...’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ broke in Biggles. ‘I’ll stay here to see the vultures don’t get him. You take the machine back to the bungalow and fetch one of the others with some empty cans that might do for digging. The ground is mostly soft sand so we should be able to dig a grave of sorts. Some stones or branches piled on top should keep the hyenas from digging him up—if there are any about. I haven’t seen any. I can’t think of anything else we can do.’
‘Okay. You watch the forest. Ducard seemed to think that stinking witch-doctor will come back.’ Instinctively as he spoke Ginger glanced towards the forest. His body stiffened and a hand went to his revolver. ‘Look what’s coming,’ he jerked out.
Biggles spun round. He stared unbelievingly.
Marching briskly towards them in single file from the direction of the forest, and not more than a hundred yards away came a party of seven men, six coloured men led by a white officer. All wore uniforms. All carried rifles except the officer, a man of middle age with a military cut about him.
‘Who the deuce are they?’ muttered Ginger. ‘They’re not our troops.’
Biggles shrugged. ‘Search me.’
They waited for the party to arrive.
Looking hard at Biggles the officer saluted. ‘Bonjour, monsieur.’
‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ returned Biggles politely.
The officer looked at the dead man on the ground. He looked at the aircraft, then back at Biggles. Pointing to the dead man he said: ‘Did you do this?’
‘No. We found him here. He died only a few minutes ago.’
‘You found him.’ The officer, pardonably perhaps, looked incredulous.
‘That is what I said. To whom have I the honour of speaking?’
‘Capitaine Bourgon, of the Belgian Colonial Service. And you, monsieur?’
‘Inspector Bigglesworth, of the British Police.’
‘May I ask what you are doing on Belgian territory?’
‘Belgian territory!’ Biggles looked astonished, as indeed he was.
‘Yes.’
‘But this is British territory, monsieur.’
‘There you make the mistake, monsieur. You are in the Belgian Congo.’ The officer was coldly polite.
‘Let us say one of us is mistaken, monsieur,’ returned Biggles. ‘There are no frontier posts. I suggest that here a few kilometres one way or the other are not of importance. According to the map with which I was provided for this mission we stand on British property, otherwise you may be sure I would not be here.’
‘The boundary is perhaps vague,’ conceded the officer. ‘What was your mission?’
‘To investigate certain murders that have occurred at the British post higher up the lake and to find out what had become of a tribe called Zinns, which are, and always have been, our responsibility.’
‘Yes, the Zinns are on your ground,’
admitted the officer. ‘Our boundaries run close.’
‘And may I ask why you have come here?’
‘I was looking for this gentleman.’ The Belgian glanced down at Ducard. ‘We have searched for him for a long time. Do you know who killed him?’
‘Yes. He told us. His partner. A man named, apparently, Akmet Batoun.’
‘Ah! That one. So he is here.’
‘He was. He appears to have gone.’
‘They were not alone, of course. What men had they with them?’
‘A witch-doctor and some tribesmen from the Congo. They came from the Congo.’
‘Why did they come here? Do you know that?’
‘Yes. Ducard told me they came looking for diamonds. They didn’t find any. I ordered them to go because they were interfering with the Zinns.’
‘How?’
‘By forcing them to work for them, by terrorizing them with leopard-men.’
‘Ah. Batoun has done that before. That was one reason why I was looking for him.’
‘What were the other reasons?’
‘He is a thief and a smuggler of diamonds from our territory. Batoun is a dangerous man. Ducard, for some reason, seemed to be under his influence. We have hunted for them for a long time, but they were not easy to find. We heard a rumour they had come this way so I followed.’
‘You seem to know a lot about them. What was Ducard’s nationality?’
‘I’m not sure. He might have been British. He was born in Cape Town. His father, we think, was Dutch, and his mother English. When he was young he went to prison for illicit diamond buying. When he came out he wandered all over Africa. A clever man. He spoke many languages, and very many native dialects.’
‘And what about Batoun?’
‘I don’t think he had a nationality. Certainly not an official one. His father served for a time in the French Foreign Legion but ran away. His mother was an Arab woman. Batoun himself was born in the Kasbah at Algiers. He was always a thief and a scoundrel. He met Ducard in the international zone in Tangier, where both had fled to escape arrest. They came under our notice when they caused trouble with the natives in Leopoldville. Those two would cause trouble anywhere, monsieur.’