by W E Johns
‘You sure about dis?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘You ain’t kiddin’?’
Ginger made a gesture of impatience. ‘Do I sound as if I’m kidding?’
‘How you find out?’
‘By asking at all the stations along the line about people who got off with an Inverness ticket. That’s how we knew where you were. So we came along. Simple, wasn’t it?’
Cornelli bit his lip. ‘Smart,’ he said softly. ‘Sure. Real smart.’
Ginger saw no harm in telling Cornelli this because he couldn’t see how it would help him. Apart from that, the knowledge that the Viper was close on his trail would make things more difficult for him. To start looking for the boy, and that Ginger imagined had been Cornelli’s intention, would be a more dangerous operation than he had anticipated.
‘Now I’ve told you all I know do you mind if I go back to my friends?’ requested Ginger.
‘Not so fast,’ returned Cornelli coldly. ‘What gives you de idea youse goin’ back? Who’s dat guy you talk to uppa de road?’
‘He’s a man who lives here.’
‘What you talk about?’
‘We asked him if he’d seen a boy fishing anywhere.’
‘Did he see de kid some place?’
‘No. All he could say was he didn’t think the boy could have been fishing the Spey or he’d have seen him. So we still haven’t a clue as to where he may have gone.’
Ginger wasn’t lying. This was as much as he knew, for it was at this point in Biggles’s conversation with the water bailiff that he had spotted Cornelli and left the party to follow him. This was before anything had been said about Major Grey fishing the Tromie and the possibility of Carlo being with him. As far as this particular tributary was concerned he was in complete ignorance. Indeed, he was unaware of the existence of a river called the Tromie.
Cornelli, who had paused, presumably to digest the unwelcome news Ginger had given him, went on: ‘How does dis guy know de boy don’t fish de Spey no more?’
‘He should know. He’s an official employed to guard the river against poachers so he’s up and down it all day.’
This final piece of information seemed to take the remaining wind out of Cornelli’s sails. He looked worried, nonplussed, as he had every reason to be. Ginger might have lost his life by smiling at the gangster’s discomfiture. Cornelli, his eyes glinting and his thin lips drawn tightly over his teeth, whipped up his gun. ‘What’s so funny?’ he spat. At that moment he looked what he was, a killer.
Ginger’s smile faded. ‘Sorry,’ he said, contritely. ‘But it just struck me that this business has a comical slide. While we stand here arguing the Viper will be looking for the boy. You know what he’ll do if he finds him?’
‘Bump him off.’
‘Is that what you’d do?’
‘Sure. De brat donta go back to his pappa after what de old man done to me.’
Ginger shook his head, slowly. ‘You’re not so smart. The Viper kill him? Not likely. Why should he? That boy’s worth a million dollars, and as you know, and as the Viper knows, his father’s in London with the money.’
‘Pah! Donta give me dat,’ sneered Cornelli. ‘How could de Viper know de old man’s in London?’
‘Don’t fool yourself. How do you suppose the Viper knew you were at the Grosvenor when he called to see you there?’
‘How? You tell me.’
‘The old man told him. He said he had an appointment with you that same evening.’
Cornelli looked incredulous. ‘Why would de old man tell him dat?’
‘He couldn’t help himself. The Viper used the same argument as you do — a gun.’
‘So dat was it,’ breathed Cornelli. ‘You sure know plenty.’
‘Now you get wise,’ went on Ginger. ‘If the Viper gets his hands on the boy he’ll hold him for ransom and you’ll have come a long way for nothing — that is, if you don’t run into him and get bumped off yourself.’
Cornelli considered the matter, regarding Ginger with calculating malice.
Ginger, having no weapon, had for some time been thinking fast. What Cornelli intended to do with him at the close of this conversation he did not know, but he was not so optimistic as to suppose he would be allowed to walk away to rejoin the others and continue the search for the missing boy. He knew too much. He might see the Viper and tell him where to find Cornelli.
A few yards farther on the wood ended abruptly at the lip of a steep brae which, falling almost down to the river, like so many banks in the Highlands, was covered with a dense growth of gorse, broom, bracken and a tangle of brambles. It was ready-made for murder. In such a jungle a body could lie for months or even years without being discovered. Cornelli had glanced at it several times and the significance of this had not been lost on Ginger who, as his alarm mounted, became increasingly determined to take any chance of escape rather than submit to what he suspected Cornelli had in mind. After all, he reasoned, if this assumption was correct he had nothing to lose and everything to gain by making a break.
The chance came when Cornelli went on: ‘You seen the Viper since you came here?’
‘Here he comes now,’ answered Ginger, casually, looking over Cornelli’s shoulder into the wood beyond.
The trick worked. Cornelli spun round to look.
Ginger jumped forward, and grabbing the arm of the hand that held the gun twisted it with a force that might have broken it. He hoped, of course, that Cornelli would drop the gun. That was the intention, but it failed. Cornelli, caught off-balance, fell, the gun exploding as he went down and the bullet kicking up pine needles between Ginger’s feet. Cornelli fell on his back. Ginger, still hanging on to the gun arm, fell on him, his knees on his stomach. This produced a grunt, but Cornelli still held the gun in spite of all Ginger could do to make him open his hand.
Writhing like a snake Cornelli strove to get up, but Ginger fought just as desperately to prevent it, aware that his life depended on keeping the arm down. Holding the gun against the ground with one hand he drove the fist of the other into Cornelli’s face and followed this by using both hands to twist Cornelli’s wrist. This must have hurt, for it produced a cry. But it did the trick. Cornelli’s fingers opened and the gun fell out of them. Ginger snatched it up as he jumped clear.
Breathing heavily he turned to face his opponent who had lost no time in getting to his feet. ‘Now I’ll do the talking,’ he panted, trenchantly.
What, given time, he would have said, is a matter for conjecture, but at that moment a movement among the trees some distance behind Cornelli caught his eye. For a split second he stared unbelievingly. Then he cried out, in a voice shrill with alarm. ‘Look out! Here is the Viper.’
There must have been something in his voice or manner that told Cornelli this was the truth — as indeed it was. The gangster took one quick look and bolted, taking from his pocket as he ran a second pistol, which, as may be imagined, shook Ginger to no small extent, for this was a possibility that had not occurred to him. However, he did not stand still to consider what might have happened had not the Viper arrived on the scene. He, too, ran, taking a different route through the trees and presently swinging round to where he judged the lane to be. What was happening behind him he neither knew nor cared. His one idea was to get back to Biggles with all possible speed. He had no wish to become involved in a shooting match between Cornelli and his gangster associates whom he had betrayed.
As he ran he listened for shots, but heard none. Reaching the lane he put Cornelli’s pistol in his pocket and ran on until he came to the first houses. Only then did he steady his pace, and straightening his disarranged clothes walked on quickly to the place from where he had started his extraordinary adventure. He found Biggles and the others still there, standing by the car.
Biggles did not exactly receive him with open arms. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, his forehead furrowed with a deep frown of annoyance. ‘What the dev
il have you been doing?’ he demanded angrily.
‘Devil is the right word,’ answered Ginger, still breathing deeply from his exertions, as he sank down on the running board of the car and mopped a sweaty face with his handkerchief.
‘You realize you’ve kept us waiting here—’
‘Don’t think that was for fun,’ broke in Ginger. ‘I’ve been for a walk with Cornelli — with a gun stuck in my ribs.’
‘What!’ Biggles’s expression changed in a flash to one of incredulity.
‘Here’s his gun — or one of his guns,’ went on Ginger, producing the weapon.
‘Well, stiffen the crows,’ exclaimed Biggles. ‘How did this happen?’
Ginger told his story, starting at the point where he had walked away to confirm that the man he had seen was Cornelli.
‘We heard a shot but thought nothing of it,’ said Eddie, at the finish.
‘I was hoping it might you along. Have you seen Cornelli? He may have come this way.’
‘No.’
‘The last I saw of him he was in that wood, running for his life towards the river. What about the Viper?’
‘We haven’t seen him, either,’ replied Biggles. ‘What a kettle of fish! It looks as if there’s going to be shooting before this daft game’s played out.’
‘The question is, old boy, where do we step into it?’ put in Bertie, polishing his eyeglass thoughtfully.
‘Here’s that water bailiff coming back,’ observed Biggles. ‘He looks as if he’s going to speak to us. I wonder if he’s seen Major Grey or the boy, or picked up some news of them.’
The water-keeper came up. ‘Yon boy ye were asking after seems to be in great demand the day,’ he remarked, cheerfully.
‘How so?’
‘I was stopped up the river a wee bit by two other gentlemen who were looking for him.’
‘Was one of them short and dark, and the other tall?’ asked Biggles, quickly.
‘Aye. That would be them,’ agreed the bailiff.
‘Did you tell them you thought the lad was fishing with Major Grey up the Tromie?’
‘Aye. I hope ye find him.’ With a smile and a nod the Fishery Board Official walked on.
Biggles turned a serious face to the others. ‘It’s time we were getting up the Tromie,’ he said, grimly. ‘The Viper must have been on his way there when he cut through the wood. That’s the direction. I’ve had a look at the map.’
‘What about the car?’ queried Eddie.
‘We might as well use it for as far as it’ll take us,’ returned Biggles. ‘Then, I’m afraid, it’ll mean hoofing it. Keep your eyes open, everyone, for Cornelli or the Viper. They can’t be far away. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were watching us. Let’s go.’
CHAPTER 15
No difficulty was experienced in finding the confluence of the Spey and its tributary, the Tromie, and the car turned on to the track which began, and proceeded, towards the distant hills in wild but pleasant country, keeping in touch with the river without necessarily following its winding course. Nothing was seen of the gangsters.
What had been said about the track, which was no more than an accommodation road to the sporting lodge on the river bank, turned out to be only too true. It was in a terrible state with ruts deep enough to break the springs of the car, for which reason Biggles had to drive slowly and with care. Anyway, after about two miles progress was barred by a gate, which was locked, and bore the notice ‘Private Road’.
Said Biggles, as he parked the car on the heather beside the track: ‘This is where we start walking.’
‘And this, too, is where we get our shirts wet, old boy, if I’m any judge of weather,’ observed Bertie with some misgivings. He was eyeing an ominous, anvil-shaped cloud coming up against the breeze.
‘Thunderstorm,’ said Biggles, carelessly, little supposing that this was to play a part in their affairs. ‘Let’s go over to the river. We might as well follow it. If the boy’s out fishing he might be sitting down, in which case we wouldn’t see him unless we were close.’
The Tromie, a typical Highland river, made a delightful picture as it wandered along its ancient bed from its source in the Cairngorms, towering high into the eastern sky. The country was fairly open, the herbage consisting almost entirely of undulating heather for as far as the eye could see; but there was also a fair amount of natural timber, mostly pine and silver birch with water-loving alders often lining the banks of the river. This was not very wide, varying between fifteen and thirty yards according to the confines of its bed. Sometimes it ran smoothly, although always fast, over a gravel bottom, but more often there were places where, flecked with foam, it had to fight its way through rocks and boulders. The water itself was wonderfully clear, which made it difficult to judge the depth. Ginger, knowing how misleading such rivers can be, suspected it was deeper than it appeared.
Generally speaking the scene was as charming a picture of rural solitude as could be imagined. Skylarks sang. Bees hummed in the warm sunshine. A few terns winged their way lazily, like large white swallows, up and down the stream in their eternal quest for the small fish which formed their food. They took no notice of the intruders. Once in a while a flash of silver revealed a salmon fighting its way upstream to the spawning grounds.
But Biggles was evidently not concerned with fish, or the scenery, for he complained about the increasing amount of timber which restricted their view. They were, of course, still watching for the Viper. The going also became more difficult, the ground uneven and the heather long with many rocks buried in it.
‘We shall look a bunch of suckers if the kid isn’t here after all,’ muttered Eddie, as they sweated on.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll get a shower bath presently,’ promised Biggles, with an upward glance at the approaching storm.
For about an hour they went on, always watching the river banks in front of them for the boy, and the banks behind for the Viper, but by the end of that time, when the lodge appeared on the opposite bank ahead, half hidden by trees, they had not seen a soul.
Near the lodge the track reappeared, to cross the river with an old wooden bridge that did not look any too safe for a vehicle.
‘This is where we might get news of Carlo,’ said Biggles. ‘Major Grey, if this is his place, may be out fishing, but there should be someone here.’
They crossed the bridge, went to the front door and rang the bell. The door was opened by an elderly woman who looked as if she might be the housekeeper.
‘Good morning. Is Major Grey staying here?’ inquired Biggles.
‘Aye.’
‘Is he at home?’
‘No. He’s away to Grantown with my husband for the shopping.’
‘Has he a boy named Carlo staying here with him?’
‘Aye, but he’s awa’ up the river to the fishing.’
‘By himself?’
‘Aye. The Major and my mon, the gillie, will be joining him na doot when they come back.’
‘We’re very anxious to find Carlo. We have an urgent message for him. Could you give us an idea of where we might find him?’
‘On a day like this he’ll most likely be at the White Mare’s Tail.’
‘I take it that’s a pool.’
‘A long run of rocky rushes below the lynn.’
‘How far up the river is it?’
‘Aboot a mile, I’d say.’
‘And on which bank do you think he’d be fishing?’
‘The run fishes best from the far side. The deep water is on this side and the rocks are big and dangerous.’
‘Thank you. We’ll see if we can find him. I’m much obliged to you. If the Major comes back you might tell him we’ve only gone up the river to speak to Carlo.’
‘Surely. Guid day to ye.’
Biggles led the way back across the bridge. ‘Now at last we seem to be getting somewhere,’ he said in a voice of relief.
His confidence expired in an exclamation of annoyance when, about
twenty minutes later, the noise of turbulent water which they had heard for some time, was explained, and there came into view the long reach of foaming white water that gave the run its name. Here the river, coming over the fall, hurled itself against a chaos of rock faces on the far side in a cloud of spray. Recoiling it raced on between more black rocks that stuck out of the water like giant teeth. It was an ideal place for salmon to rest behind the rocks while waiting to mount the fall. And the boy for whom they had sought so long was there.
He was on the opposite bank.
Poised on the obviously dangerous rocks, which in places rose sheer for five or six feet above the level of the water, he was leaning back on a rod that was bent like a bow, with the point jerking.
‘Would you believe it?’ muttered Biggles, bitterly. ‘There he is and we can’t get to him.’
They all hurried on, for the place where the boy was standing was a good hundred yards above them.
‘It’s him all right,’ declared Eddie.
‘And it looks as if he’s stuck in a fish,’ put in Bertie, as there came the scream of a reel above the noise of the water.
Carlo, following his fish which was now running downstream, came nearer. Intent on what he was doing, as indeed he had to be, he took not the slightest notice of them. His face was pale and his lips were parted in excitement. His eyes were on the water at the point where the line entered it. His task was not made any easier by a long-handled gaff that swung loosely from a belt round his waist.
‘He must be out of his mind,’ said Biggles, as they came opposite, with the boiling water between them.
At that moment, as if things were not difficult enough, with a shattering clap of thunder the storm broke, and the rain came down like ramrods. Visibility was practically blotted out, although the boy, not more than twenty yards away, could still just be discerned like a vague grey shadow. He was still fighting his fish and had no eyes for anything else.