by W E Johns
They found Tug just about to seal his report. Biggles told him to leave it open as he had something more to add. Then, sitting down, he wrote rapidly for some minutes before sealing the envelope. Looking up at Algy he said, “Sorry, laddie, but I shall have to ask you to go flat out for home. Take the Mosquito that brought us out—you should do the trip comfortably in seven hours. See Raymond. Give him this report. Tell him all you know. He must act as he thinks best. I’ve given him the names and addresses of the taxidermists, and told him what they really are, so he may decide to strike right away.”
Algy took the envelope. “Where shall I find you when I get back?”
“Kudinga,” answered Biggles. “You can tell Raymond that, too. Get cracking. I’ve got to have a few words with Tug before he goes to work.”
“I’ll be seeing you,” promised Algy as he departed.
Chapter 14
Events At Kudinga
AFTER the drone of the departing Pacemaker had faded to silence Ginger and Bertie stood for a little while gazing in the direction of the lodge, conspicuous by its lights, not expecting to see anything but thinking there was just a chance that they might. At length Ginger turned away with a casual, “Well, that’s that.”
“Here, I say, where are you going?” asked Bertie.
“We might as well stroll back to the forest.”
“But what about my nauseating pants?”
“What about them?”
“Don’t you think I might slip up to the lodge and have a quick bath and change?”
“That would be a daft thing to do,” declared Ginger. “You couldn’t get in, anyway. They’ll have locked the gate by now. If we’re wise we’ll keep well away from the place.”
“I thought I might just slip in without anybody seeing me—”
“Nothing doing.”
“Then what are we going to do? I mean, where are we going to sleep, and all that? Do you realize I haven’t a razor?”
“Better to have a bit of stubble on your chin than a knife in your ribs.”
“But that’s all very fine,” protested Bertie. “Where are we going to find a roof to get under?”
“As far as I know,” answered Ginger, “there’s only one roof, apart from the lodge, for several hundred miles, and that’s the power-house. This might be the opportunity to give it the once-over. The engine isn’t running or we should hear it, which I take to mean there’s no one there. I shouldn’t think anyone sleeps there. Aside from that, it would be a more comfortable place to pass the night than out on the plain or in the forest.”
“If there’s no one there the place will be locked.”
“We’ll break in.”
“If we do that, when the crooks come in the morning they’ll know we’ve been around.”
“So what? As far as we’re concerned the game’s up. If Kreeze gets his hands on us we’re sunk, any how, so we’ve nothing to lose. He’s bound to organize a search for me in the morning, as soon as it gets light. Maybe he won’t think of looking in the power-house.”
“But isn’t the power-house inside the fence?”
“Yes. But if you remember I told you there’s a place where the fence has been knocked flat by a fallen tree.”
“Where the bally buffaloes go in and out? That doesn’t sound a very good place to me, old boy.”
“Perhaps there aren’t any more. I’m pretty sure that the one that came for me was a solitary old bull.”
“I hope you’re right, by gad. What about the snakes—the puff-adders and things? I’d rather argue with that crooked crook Kreeze in daylight than with a puff-adder in the dark—yes, by Jove! Every time.”
Ginger hesitated. “There may be snakes,” he agreed. “But we’re quite likely to step on one anywhere if we go blundering about in the dark. Can you make any alternative suggestion?”
“How about finding a good tree and squatting in it?”
“You seem to forget that I’ve spent most of the day in a tree,” returned Ginger coldly. “That was enough for me. But there’s no sense in standing here. Let’s drift back to the forest for a start. I’ll tell you something else. If we go down to the power-house you could wash your pants in the water of the lake. You might even give your precious body a swill down.”
“Now you’re talking,” declared Bertie with enthusiasm. “I could collect my rifle on the way.”
“Are you crazy?”
“What’s wrong with that, old boy?”
“Kreeze knows the rifle is there. In the morning, if he found it gone, being well aware that lions and hyenas don’t walk about with rifles, he’d know I wasn’t far away,” Ginger pointed out sarcastically.
“Ah! Of course. Absolutely—silly ass that I am,” muttered Bertie. “Perhaps, old boy, as you’ve got a rifle, you wouldn’t mind walking in front, in case we barge into anything—if you see what I mean?”
“I see what you mean all right,” returned Ginger, taking the lead.
By this time they were well on their way back towards the forest, which lay like a great sinister wall across their path.
Reaching it, they held on through dappled moonlight along the track, for it was Ginger’s intention to go first to the scene of the affair with the buffalo as this was the only landmark he knew which would be a guide to the gap in the fence. Striking down the hill from that point would bring him to it, or close enough to enable him to find it. But as they drew near, certain sounds caused him to change his mind.
“Here, I say, what’s going on?” asked Bertie. They stood still to listen. From no great distance along the track came a sound of tearing, and deep-throated purring, punctuated by an occasional growl.
“That sounds like lions to me,” murmured Ginger.
“How revolting.”
“In a way it’s a good thing,” said Ginger. “By the time Kreeze arrives in the morning the lions will have left ample evidence of their visit. That will lend colour to our plan for leading him to think that you finished up by providing a lion with his rations.”
“I wish you wouldn’t keep reminding me of that,” protested Bertie. “You seem to take a positive delight in a picture of a lion running round with me in his mouth. How are you going to find your way to the gap, now?”
“I’m not going any nearer to that beanfeast, that’s certain,” declared Ginger. “We shall have to cut straight down the hill from here, and when we come to the fence, make our way along it to the fallen tree.”
“It’s going to be perfectly foul groping about in the bushes,” observed Bertie. “It’ll be as dark as the inside of a black cow under those trees. Wouldn’t it be better to wait for daylight?”
“As soon as it starts to get light there will be people moving about,” answered Ginger. “Someone may go to the powerhouse. Besides, if we wait here, the lions may go home this way. That wouldn’t be funny.”
“No, by Jove! You’re right there—absolutely,” agreed Bertie readily. “All right. Let’s toddle along. The sooner we’re out of this bally menagerie the better. And to think that when I was a kid I used to pay to go to the zoo! Watch out for snakes. Tell me if you collide with anything that feels like one.”
“I’ll tell you,” promised Ginger grimly.
They turned off the track into the forest, and with hands held in front of them to protect their eyes, groped a way through the undergrowth. It had been dark on the track, although a little moonlight filtering through the trees had helped matters; but in the forest proper the darkness was utter and complete. Had it not been for the slope of the ground their task would have been hopeless, but the fall of the land did at least keep them going in the right direction without possibility of a mistake. After a very trying hour Ginger announced with intense satisfaction that they had reached the wire. They rested for a few minutes, taking the opportunity to relieve themselves of some of the thorns they had collected on the way.
Then, turning left, Ginger set off again, now feeling his way along the wire. It was a s
low and tedious journey. They were nearly an hour reaching their objective, a period of time which, towards the finish, began for Ginger to assume the unreal character of a nightmare. He felt that he had been groping his way along a wire fence in the dark all his life.
Again they rested for a few minutes before going on through the gap and down the final slope to the bamboos. These grew so thickly that it was not easy to force a passage through them. To keep any sort of watch for snakes was out of the question; they were a risk that had to be taken; and an occasional rustle on one side or the other told them that even if there were no snakes about, they were not alone in the swamp. It was therefore with heartfelt relief that they came at last to a place where the bamboos thinned out and enabled them to see the sky. They went on a little way, and there, plain to see in a flood of blue moonlight, was their objective, the power-house.
Bertie sat down, took out his handkerchief and mopped his face. “By Jove! old boy; that was a bit of a scramble—what?”
Ginger did not answer. He was looking hard at the power-house, or rather, at the deck that surrounded it. There seemed to be something different. The deck looked black, and uneven. There was, too, a ripple on the water in the immediate vicinity which at first he could not understand. When he did grasp the truth he drew in his breath with a gasp of dismay. “For heaven’s sake!” he muttered. “Look at that! The place is crawling with crocodiles!”
Bertie started. Adjusting his monocle he surveyed the scene. “How absolutely loathsome,” he muttered. “Why didn’t I think of it? In Africa, where there’s water there are usually crocs.”
“They’re all over the confounded deck.”
“They probably think the bally place was built for ‘em.”
“There is this about it,” remarked Ginger, trying to take an optimistic view. “There’s no one inside or they wouldn’t be there.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Bertie. “ But will you tell me this? How am I going to wash my pants?”
“Oh, dash your pants,” snapped Ginger. “I’m more concerned with getting rid of these brutes. There mustn’t be any shooting or it will be heard at the lodge.”
“We’ll shoo them away,” decided Bertie. “When they see me the blighters will run like rabbits. You watch.”
Looking about he found a fallen branch, a fairly—heavy piece of dead wood. Whirling it round his head he ran straight at the power-house uttering a volley of uncouth noises—shorrocks—gerrup—brrr. Releasing his hold on the branch he sent it crashing among the reptiles.
The result of this attack was alarming in its success.
The crocodiles rose up with one accord and plunged into the water, leaving the floating part of the power-house rocking. Ripples surged across the placid surrface of the lake in concentric rings to die upon the distant reed-fringed banks. In a few minutes everything had settled, and peace reigned.
“Good. Let’s go down,” suggested Ginger. “We’ve wasted an awful lot of time.”
“Absolutely,” returned Bertie. “And I’ll tell you something else. The mosquitos are tearing lumps off the back of my neck and flying away with them, the little wretches.”
Watching where they put their feet they made their way down to the power-house and walked across the planks, still wet from its recent occupiers, to the door. Drawing his revolver in case it should be needed, Ginger knocked. There was no answer, so he tried the handle. “Nothing doing,” he said. “It’s locked. That means there’s no one at home. Let’s see if we can find another way in.”
They walked round the structure examining the winndows, hoping to find one open. But everyone had been tightly fastened from the inside. What puzzled Ginger was, as he pointed out to Bertie, on the floating section of the powerhouse the window frames were steel, and fitted so closely that it was impossible to insert a knife blade between them and the woodwork. “The only thing I can think of is, this is the part that houses the stuff they don’t want anyone to see,” he remarked. “Well, if we’re going in, there’s only one thing to do, and that’s smash one of the windows. It’s no use messing about.” As he spoke he walked along to the end window—the window on the floating section farthest from the door—and raised the butt of his revolver with the obvious intention of carrying out his design.
“Here, I say, just a minute,” said Bertie, in a voice stiff with alarm. “The bally crocs are coming back!”
Ginger, still with his arm raised, looked over his shoulder at the water. Several little rings of ripples, with two dark projections in the middle of each, indicated clearly the cause of Bertie’s concern.
“The brutes are watching us,” went on Bertie. “They’re the most precocious crocs I’ve ever seen. What do they want?”
“They’re probably hoping to get a taste of your pants,” Ginger told him lightly. Then he added seriously: “No doubt they’re used to people working here. Take my rifle and keep it handy in case they try to come aboard.”
“I’m not so sure that I like standing on this gangway,” said Bertie anxiously. “One might decide to make a grab at me.”
“All right. You’d better come inside when I’ve smashed the glass,” suggested Ginger.
He ended the debate by striking the glass with the butt of his revolver. To his surprise it did not break. “They put in some pretty tough stuff while they were about it,” he remarked, and repeated the blow with more violence. This time he was successful, and glass tinkled as it fell inside the building. “I wonder why they used plate glass?” he muttered, as he started knocking off the jagged ends, which would still make entry difficult if not dangerous. This done, he took out his torch, and putting an arm through the window switched it on, keeping the beam down to lessen the chances of reflected light being seen from the lodge. A quick survey revealed a machine mounted on a bench, with sundry instruments and rolls of paper lying about.
“I’m going in,” he announced. “Are you coming?”
“You bet I am,” answered Bertie. “These crocs have definitely got a whiff of my pants.” He held the rifle while Ginger climbed through the window; then he passed the weapon through and followed.
One minute was sufficient to confirm all the suspicions Ginger had ever entertained about the place, for the dominant feature was what he knew must be a printing machine. It was compact and highly elaborate. He had never seen one before, but a neat pile of plain paper, and some specimen printings, revealed its purpose. He picked up an American ten dollar bill and held it for Bertie to see. On another bench were arranged a number of flat copper plates; attached to each one by a rubber band was a piece of paper, presumably the design it printed. These designs were notes of several nationalities. Among others he noticed Italian lira, Greek drachmae and Spanish pesetas. In the far corner of the room was an instrument like a camera and some small sheets of copper. On a shelf were cans of printers’ inks of various colours. He understood now the inky fingers of the operator.
“This is it,” he told Bertie. “This is where the dud stuff is printed. There must be a power unit in the next compartment. I imagine it supplies the lodge with electricity, and when required runs this printing outfit. We can’t get into the next room because the door’s locked—not that it really matters.” Ginger had walked over and was trying the door. “Seems a pretty substantial sort of door, too,” he observed. “The place is built like a safe. This door looks like metal. What the deuce would they want a metal door for?”
“To prevent anyone who happened to get in through the front door from coming in here,” suggested BertIe.
“No matter,” returned Ginger. “We’ve seen all we need to see.”
“And what are we going to do about it now we’ve seen it?” inquired Bertie. “The first operator who comes here in the morning will know someone has been in.”
“Can’t help that,” replied Ginger. “If we can get clear of this place our evidence alone should be enough to put paid to the racket. I’ll take some of these odd notes to support our statement. If ar
rangements can be made to raid the place before this stuff can be dismantled and hidden, so much the better. If the gang takes fright and hides everything—and that I fancy would take a bit of doing—these notes will take some explaining.” As he spoke Ginger made a quick collection of notes, folded them into a tight wad and put it in his breast pocket.
A few more minutes were spent making a thorough examination of the place; then Bertie announced that it was four o’clock.
Ginger drew a deep breath. “Well, I call that a good night’s work.”
Bertie agreed. “What’s the best thing to do now?”
“Stay here,” replied Ginger. “We’re better off in here than anywhere outside. There won’t be anything doing until it gets light; we can’t do anything ourselves if it comes to that. It wouldn’t be a bad idea if we settled down and had a rest while things are quiet. Goodness knows when we shall get another chance.”
“Absolutely,” said Bertie. “I’m all for it. We’ve been on the trot for nearly twenty-four hours and the old legs are getting a bit loose at the joints.”
For lack of more comfortable accommodation they sat on the floor wIth their backs against the wall.
Neither was really to blame for what followed. Although the subject had not been mentioned both were desperately tired. The events of that day alone would have been exhausting, but since leaving London they had had practically no regular sleep. It was now early morning after a night of no sleep at all, and in the matter of loss of sleep there is a definite limit to what nature will permit. Ginger of course had no intention of going to sleep, or he would have taken the obvious precaution of suggesting that they took turn at keeping guard. And the same with Bertie. The idea was that they should take a rest while the opportunity offered; but in the circumstances it was fatal. Conversation flagged. Silence fell. In a few minutes they were both in a deep dreamless sleep.
How long they would have slept had nothing occurred to break their slumber is a matter for conjecture. Nature may not have exacted her full toll, and having got them at her mercy it is not unlikely that they would have slept the clock round. It so happened however that they were awakened by a sharp, abrupt sound, rather as if a cupboard door had been slammed.