by W E Johns
“Any what?” snarled the Colonel.
“Sharks’ teeth.”
The Colonel appeared to choke.
Without quickening his pace Bertie went on to the Otter. As he climbed into his seat he could see the messenger running, waving the paper, so realizing that the sooner he was in the air the better, he started up, turned his tail to the group watching him, smothering them with a cloud of dust, and took off.
Looking down as he swung round towards the west he laughed at a scene of confusion which confirmed his impression and told him he was away just in time. The Colonel was brandishing his arms, and both pilots were running towards their machines. This did not alarm him, for he had a good start, and with the sun already dropping into the sea, like an enormous red bubble, it would, he knew, be dark in two or three minutes. Keeping the aircraft low he raced on, on full throttle.
He did not hold his westerly course for long, knowing perfectly well what lay in that direction. In giving it to him the Count had, he knew, hoped to dispose of him for good. As soon as darkness began to take possession of the ocean he swung round to the south-east and was soon on a course for Kuala Lumpur, laughing from time to time at the success of his ridiculous bluff.
Declining to call at Kutaradja for fear his arrival there should be reported to the enemy he carried on down the Malacca Strait and, on his reserve tank, reached home to find the others in a state of acute anxiety.
“What the deuce have you been doing?” demanded Biggles crisply. “You’ve had us all in a flap.”
“I nearly had myself in a bit of a flap, old boy, if it comes to that,” answered Bertie. “How about some tuck? I’m distinctly peckish.”
“Where have you been all this time?”
“Fasten your safety belts, chaps. I’ve been to the island.”
“What island?”
“There’s only one island that matters at the moment, old warrior. The Colonel’s island. What other?”
Biggles blinked. “Do you mean you—landed on it?”
“Absolutely. Nearly scared myself rigid, too, doing it. The Colonel’s flat patch looks anything but flat. A really natty spot of camouflage.”
“What reason did you give for landing?”
“I said I was collecting sharks’ teeth. They thought I was nuts, completely crackers.”
“I’m not sure they weren’t right,” rejoined Biggles, slowly.
“They believed me. Witness the fact that they let me fly away, having given me a course due west for Penang.”
“By thunder! They must have taken you for a fool.”
“That, laddie, is just what they did take me for, I’m glad to say. I didn’t really intend to land but I was persuaded to do so by a Nakajima fighter which apparently keeps watch for stray birds over the Colonel’s roosting place.”
“Did you get a good look at the place?”
“Too true. The whole works.”
“Wonderful. Let’s have some fodder. While we’re eating you can tell us all about it.”
Before the meal was over Bertie had them all in stitches with the story of his fantastic quest for sharks’ teeth. Later in a more serious mood, he narrated in detail the result of his reconnaissance, for while his visit to the island had been brief his eyes had made the most of their opportunity.
CHAPTER IX
BIGGLES GETS TOUGH
BERTIE, over coffee, described the island; how at one end for three quarters of its length it was low and flat, not much above sea level, with the other end rising to some rough, jungle-covered hills, a few hundred feet high at the highest point. He said he thought the whole place must have been under jungle in the not very distant past, and the Japs had cleared only enough to make a landing strip. What herbage had grown since the war was brown, dead, as if it had been sprayed with weed-killer. That was what it looked like. The rough surface appeared in places to have been treated with colouring matter to make it look uneven from the air.
“The job has been done by someone who knows all the tricks of camouflage, I can tell you that,” Bertie assured his interested listeners. “If I hadn’t seen the Dakota go down, showing that the ground was really flat, I wouldn’t have taken a chance of bending my undercart even with the Nakajima on my tail. I’d have ditched in the drink first.”
He went on to explain that there were several buildings at the end where the ground ran into the jungle and began to rise. These, too, had been camouflaged, and would not be noticed from an altitude. They were obviously relics of the war and seemed to be in pretty bad shape. Two canvas hangars were still standing, and near them a row of wooden hutments with palm-thatched roofs. In fact, from ground level the placed looked what it was, an abandoned war-time temporary airfield.
“Very interesting,” said Biggles. “So Tidore told the truth. That Nakajima, possibly unserviceable at the time, may have been left behind when the Japs packed up. The fact that the Colonel employs Jap pilots suggests that they may have been stationed there.”
“They look about the right age,” said Bertie.
“The Colonel, as a United States officer, could have met them as prisoners of war, and so learned about the dump. Or he may have been the officer detailed to take over the place, and seeing the possibilities, kept quiet about it, intending to cut in on the surplus war materials racket when the fuss died down. That’s only surmise, but this association of an American with Jap pilots begins to add up.”
“If that junk I saw had come from farther east, from China or Macao, for instance, it could have been bringing in a load of contraband.”
“A load of anything,” opined Biggles. “With American forces in Formosa there’s some funny business going on in the China Sea at the moment. No one would have any legal right to stop and search a Chinese craft on the high seas. Anyway, all this goes to show that the Colonel’s island is what Tidore said it was, a general distribution centre. Did you notice any beaches, Bertie?”
“Plenty. There are some jolly little coves. The yacht was in one. I doubt if any are big enough to land the Otter on, though, if that’s what you’re contemplating.”
“What was the sea like when you were there?”
“Calm. But I didn’t know that until I was low on my run in. Are you thinking of dropping in for a look round?”
“I have a feeling it may come to that. If we’re going to try anything like that it’ll have to be soon, if for no other reason that this is the end of May and the south-west monsoon is due to arrive in June. We don’t want to be caught out in that. Another thing. If that message you saw delivered when you were on the island was about you it means that the Colonel is now wise about the Otter. Good thing we know about that or we might have slipped up.” Biggles laughed. “By thunder! The Colonel, who brags he never makes a mistake, must have been mad when he realized how you’d fooled him with that line of guff about sharks’ teeth. You won’t get away with that again.”
“I hope I shall never have to try, laddie.”
“Well, what are we going to do?” put in Ginger. “The longer we sit here the bigger will be the risk of the Colonel having a smack at us first.”
Biggles admitted the truth of this, but pointed out that he couldn’t go on indefinitely without some sleep. Moreover, he would prefer to await instructions from the Air Commodore before taking matters into his own hands.
“If I know the Air Commodore,” said Algy, “all you’ll get from him will be a request for further details, and proofs of your allegations. How are you going to get those without going to the island?”
“You can’t blame him for being cautious,” defended Biggles. “With half the world on the boil anyone who turns the gas up is likely to get his front hair singed. That goes for us, even if we are policemen. Don’t forget there are several touchy nationalities tied up in this— Americans, Japanese, Chinese, and what have you.”
“So what?” protested Ginger. “We were sent out to investigate a case of piracy. Does it matter who the pirates are?”
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“We know now that it wasn’t just a matter of common piracy. The chief wasn’t to know that we’d find ourselves mixed up in gang warfare, with smuggling the main issue. Things have become more complicated than he had any reason to expect. That’s why I think he should know how things stand before we start letting off fireworks.”
“It’ll come to that at the finish,” declared Ginger.
“Come to what?”
“Our going to the island for evidence. You won’t get warrants for arrest as things stand. All you’ll do if you ask for them is start an international rumpus in which the Colonel will quietly remove all traces of his dirty work. You haven’t even got Tidore as a witness.”
Biggles did not answer.
“I’m all for going to the island and having a bash at this Colonel chap before he has a crack at us,” declared Bertie.
“What are you going to bash with?” inquired Biggles, coldly. “We’re not equipped for a commando operation, if that’s what you have in mind.”
“Too true... too true,” murmured Bertie. “Pity. I was thinking that if we burnt their planes and scuppered their yacht we could keep the blighters marooned until orders came through from the chief. The weather’s just right for the job. No use waiting for the bally monsoon to blow along—if you see what I mean.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” returned Biggles, with gentle sarcasm. “I also see that if we step off with the wrong foot at this stage we’re likely to start something that’ll take a bit of stopping. I’d like to think a little more about this before biting off more than I can chew. The Colonel must have a lot of men at his headquarters doing one job or another, to say nothing of the crews of that junk, and the yacht.”
At this point of the discussion two young men came in and sat at the next table.
Said Bertie: “Those are the two Dutch lads who blew into Vandershon’s office this afternoon when we were having our pow-wow about sharks’ teeth.”
The Dutch pilots must have recognized him, for one of them called over: “Have you been back to Kutaradja?”
“No,” answered Bertie.
“Then you won’t have heard about Vandershon.”
There was a brief, strained silence. Then Bertie said: “No. What about him.”
“Someone threw a knife at him as he was going off duty.”
“What! Do you mean—he’s dead?”
“No. But he’s in a pretty bad way. They’ve taken him to hospital. Who would do a thing like that to a decent chap like Van? He’s never hurt anybody.”
Biggles had turned pale. His lips came together in a straight line. “The swine!” he breathed. “The murdering hounds! I’ll get those devils if it’s the last thing I do.”
The Dutchmen ordered their meal.
Algy looked at Biggles. “Well, there you are,” he muttered. “They’ll be throwing knives at us, presently, if we don’t do something.”
“I think you’re right,” answered Biggles, in a brittle voice. “I told Vandershon to watch that clerk of his. If he didn’t do this himself he’ll know who did.”
“And I told Vandershon not to worry; we were keeping an eye on things,” said Bertie, in a melancholy voice.
Biggles made up his mind suddenly. “Okay,” he said, through his teeth. “If that’s how they want it that’s how they can have it. Let’s get nearer to ‘em. We’re too far away here. We’ll go over to Kutaradja in the Otter.”
“That’s more like Biggles talking,” said Bertie approvingly. “It just needed that spur in his ribs to make him kick.”
“Keep clear of my hoofs, because I’m liable to kick hard,” returned Biggles grimly. “If you’ll do the aviating I’ll snatch all the sleep I need on the way.”
“That clerk will report our arrival on the radio,” warned Ginger.
“He will—if he gets the chance,” retorted Biggles. “Let’s be moving.”
In half an hour, under a cloudless, moonlit sky, the Otter was cruising up the Malacca Strait with Biggles stretched out on the floor of the cabin. Algy and Bertie were at the controls, while Ginger sat at the radio questing the air for signals in case news of their departure should be broadcast. During the four and a half hour flight, however, he picked up nothing of interest. As ordered, he saw to it that Biggles was awakened when they were within ten minutes of the objective. The time was just after eleven.
Algy and Bertie knew what they were to do, for this had been planned at the start. The machine was to glide in and touch down clear of the lights of the airport buildings, drop Biggles and Ginger, and give them a few minutes before taxiing to the refuelling station in the ordinary way.
Just what Biggles intended to do, apart from the necessity of topping up the tank before proceeding to the island. Ginger did not know. He suspected that Biggles himself did not know. It would probably depend on who and what they found when they landed at the airport. The somewhat unorthodox landing was to give them a chance to check who was on duty, and if possible prevent their arrival from being put out over the air; for, should that happen, their danger, in being so near the enemy’s headquarters, would certainly be increased. To prevent any possible interference with the aircraft it was not to be left unattended for a moment.
With Vandershon no longer in charge there was also a risk of trouble with the authorities, who might demand an explanation of a certain infringement of international regulations which Biggles purposed putting into practice. In a word, he had told Algy not to signal their approach or ask for the customary permission to land. They could manage without landing lights. He didn’t like doing this, for, as he said, they of all people should observe regulations strictly; but, as he pointed out, the circumstances were exceptional. To tell the radio operator who they were before they landed might render useless the precautions they were taking. The Colonel might know they were here even before they were on the ground. If the breach of regulations were questioned the blame was to be put on faulty radio equipment. The circumstances would justify the deception should it arise, Biggles contended.
The plan worked without a hitch. Except for the beacon the airfield was in darkness, sufficient proof that there was no other air traffic in the area at that moment. Algy switched off some distance away and glided in to a perfect landing with hardly a sound. There were no machines on the tarmac. Biggles and Ginger stepped down, made their way to the shadows cast by the hangars and walked quickly towards the control building. As they hoped, and as might have been expected at such an hour, there was not a soul about.
Some maintenance men who were lolling in the hall, gossiping, looked round in astonishment when Biggles walked in. “Get my tanks filled,” ordered Biggles curtly, and went on to the Traffic Manager’s office. He knocked, and without waiting for a reply, entered.
There were two men in the room. Sitting in Vandershon’s chair was the Indonesian duty clerk of whom Biggles had reason to be suspicious. Standing talking to him was the radio operator, also a dark-skinned man, who had brought the signal to Vandershon when Biggles had had his conversation with him on the tarmac.
Both men looked startled when Biggles walked in, the clerk more so than the other. This was to some extent understandable as, not having heard a machine land, they could hardly have been expecting visitors.
Said the radio operator frowning, “Have you just landed?”
“I have.”
“You made no signal to say that you were coming in!”
“Apparently my radio is out of order.”
The duty clerk reached for a slip of paper with studied nonchalance. “This is the message I wanted you to send,” he told his companion, casually. He began to write.
“You’re wasting your time,” said Biggles, curtly.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You’re not sending that signal.”
“I’m in charge here.”
Biggles took a swift step forward, snatched up the message and read it. “Just as I thought,” he said
coldly. He glanced at the radio man. “Don’t go away. I hear Mr. Vandershon has met with an accident.”
“Yes. Somebody stabbed him.”
“Who did it?”
The radio operator looked horrified. “How would I know? I wish I did know the name of the villain who would do a thing like that.”
Biggles turned to the clerk. Advancing slowly he said: “Here’s a man who knows who did it.”
The clerk, alarmed perhaps by Biggles’ expression, sprang up, knocking over his chair. “Keep away from me,” he cried shrilly.
Biggles continued to advance. “Who did it?” he rasped.
“It wasn’t me—it wasn’t me.”
“How much did they pay you to do it?”
The man’s hand flew to his belt. A knife appeared in his hand. But Biggles was first with his gun. He poked it into the man’s stomach. “Drop that knife, you rat,” he said, with iron in his voice.
The knife clattered on the floor.
Biggles’ gun jabbed again. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“No!” The man’s voice rose nearly to a scream. “If you kill me they’ll get you.”
“If they do you’ll know nothing about it,” grated Biggles, smiling mirthlessly. “Confess you did it or I’ll fill you as full of holes as I have shots in this gun.” Biggles looked as if he really meant it.
“I had orders to do it. It would have been death to disobey,” cried the man, in a voice near to hysteria.
Biggles looked at the radio operator. “You heard that!” He pointed to the telephone. “Call the police and tell them that the man who stabbed Mr. Vandershon is here.”
The man moved to the instrument. But before he could pick it up the door opened and Bertie came in, a white man with him.
“Who’s this?” Biggles asked Bertie, clearly not too pleased at the interruption.
“Mr. Jurgens, Vandershon’s half-section,” explained Bertie. “He was just coming on duty when I met him outside.”
