Biggles Makes Ends Meet

by W E Johns

  “He’ll know jolly well it won’t be any use coming back while the sea is in this state,” Bertie pointed out. “Now this disgusting business has started it can go on for weeks.”

  “It can,” agreed Biggles. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean that it will. This is exceptionally early for the true monsoon. There’s a chance that it may be only a flash in the pan, a sort of advance guard to the real thing. That can happen. Should that be the case this stuff will blow itself out and there could be a fine spell before the monsoon really gets going.”

  “What about the sea? Would that go down?”

  “If the wind drops the sea will probably go down as quickly as it got up. There’s nothing we can do about it. We shall just have to wait and see.”

  “What do we use for food while we’re waiting?” inquired Ginger.

  “Some people are for ever thinking of their stomachs,” sighed Biggles. “Here’s something to fill the cavity.” He waded a little way into the surf and kicked ashore a floating coconut, the outer covering of which had been washed off, or knocked off by the rocks. Taking out his penknife he punctured the eyes, drank a little of the “milk” and passed it on. “There’s your breakfast,” he said shortly. “When you’ve finished we might as well stroll back to the cove to see what’s happened there. There’s no sense in sitting here just staring at the confounded sea. I keep thinking about that awful business last night. I’d no reason to have any regard for the Count. I know he was a crook, and all that. But even in the war it used to give me a sick feeling to see a machine going up in flames.”

  “Same here. Absolutely,” murmured Bertie. “Bad show.”

  Ginger cracked the shell of the nut by the simple expedient of hurling it against the rock. As they all gnawed a piece of the kernel Ginger asked: “When Algy comes back how are we going to show him where we are? He may come looking for us even if he doesn’t land. With everything soaking wet it’d be a bit of a job to start a fire.”

  “I think the weather’s improving,” said Biggles, looking up. “It’s getting lighter, anyway, and the rain isn’t much more than a drizzle, which is a good sign. A blink of sun will soon dry things up. There’s no hurry. I don’t think there’s the slightest chance of Algy coming back here yet. What’s that in the water?” He took a pace or two forward, staring at something in the surf. “Give me a hand, one of you,” he rapped out suddenly, and ran on.

  They all went and helped him to drag a brown body clear of the water. As they all stood looking down at it Biggles went on sombrely: “A lot of people, unprepared for that storm, must have died last night, apart from those we know about. This poor chap looks like an Indian, or an Arab. He must have been drowned close to the island to have been washed ashore so quickly. If he wasn’t knocked overboard then that dhow we saw must have foundered. We shall soon know. Other things will come ashore.”

  “What about the junk?” suggested Ginger.

  Biggles shook his head. “One would expect that to have a Chinese crew. But let’s get along. We shall learn more than by staying here guessing, and by keeping on the move we shall give our togs a chance to dry. Thank goodness it isn’t cold. We’ll have a look at the cove first.”

  As they walked along Ginger remarked: “I suppose this island has a name, but if it has we still don’t know what it is.”

  “Maybe there are so many islands in the Indian Ocean that they ran out of names,” said Biggles.

  Put in Bertie: “It sounds a bit far-fetched but I read somewhere that there are about ten thousand.”

  “Don’t let’s bother to count ‘em,” returned Biggles.

  “How about Crook Island?” suggested Ginger.

  “That might be as good a name as any,” replied Biggles. “These islands always did have a bad name. Keep your eyes on the high water mark for anything being washed up.”

  They had not gone far and were rounding a little beach when they came upon more victims of the storm in the bodies of two coloured seamen, one mutilated, presumably by sharks. There were also several small bundles of merchandise sewn in sacking. Saying “I wonder what’s in this?” Biggles picked one up and carried it clear. Taking out his knife he cut it open to expose a mass of brown, tarry-looking substance. After a meaning glance at the others he raised it to his nose.

  “Opium,” he said succinctly. “Well—well. This didn’t come from the junk, supposing it got away. A junk would hardly be carrying opium to China. This must have been aboard the dhow. If it was, it looks as if the dhow has had it. No doubt the junk brought it here. The dhow picked it up and was probably on its way to the Middle East. That’s the big market. Some of it might have found its way to England. According to Tidore that has been happening. It might be worth making a cache of this little lot. It could be produced as evidence to show the sort of traffic that was going on here. These dead men must have been some of the crew of the dhow. They’re either Indians or Arabs. Give me a hand.”

  The narcotic was soon collected and thrust into a cavity between some rocks, after which the party proceeded on its way.

  The sun now broke through the clouds. It had lost nothing of its power. In a few minutes the heat was stifling. Everything steamed, including the clothes of the travellers. Flies, mosquitoes, and innumerable other insects, appeared like magic. Visibility improved rapidly. The wind moderated, but the sea still ran high, as was inevitable after a gale.

  “It begins to look as if you were right about the storm being only an advance taste of the real thing, old boy,” remarked Bertie.

  Biggles said he was now sure of it. He took out his sodden cigarettes and very carefully laid them on a flat slab of rock. He put his matches, with the box, beside them.

  “That’s an idea,” said Ginger. He, too, laid out his matches to dry, as did Bertie.

  “They shouldn’t take long to dry,” said Biggles. “We can collect them on the way back.”

  “You mean, you’ll go back to our own beach?”

  “Yes. After we’ve had a look at the cove to see if the yacht’s still there. We’d better go back because that’s the first place Algy will make for when he comes over.” Biggles spoke carelessly, as if Algy’s return was a foregone conclusion, but the others were not deceived. They knew what he was really looking for. The wreckage of the Otter.

  Watching the surf, and the high-water mark, keeping close to the fringe of the jungle ready to take cover at any sign of danger, they strode on. Everywhere lay debris cast up by the storm—broken ships timbers, a battered canoe, trees, and a great deal of smaller stuff. They saw no more bodies.

  As they approached the last small headland Biggles went down to the sea and continued on wet sand within reach of the waves. “It would be better not to leave footprints,” he said. “Here the water will wash them out as fast as we make them. Someone may come this way. There’s no sense in showing that we’re here, although as a matter of fact they may know that already.”

  “How so?” asked Ginger.

  “They may suppose the yacht broke her cables under the pressure of the wind; but if they happen to look at the loose ends, and see they were cut, they’ll know someone’s here. And it won’t take them long to work out who it is.”

  “I didn’t think of that,” admitted Ginger. “They may be looking for us now.”

  “I think it’s more than likely,” replied Biggles. “ Anyway, we should be wise to reckon on it. If we had any means of getting away it wouldn’t matter so much. But we’re stuck here with them, and the possibility that they may be stuck here too isn’t likely to make things any easier for us. Keep your eyes skinned. We’re getting close.”

  With increasing caution they began to make their way over the jungle-covered rocks of the little promontory that formed one arm of the cove wherein the yacht had been moored.

  CHAPTER XII

  A RECONNAISSANCE AND A BLOW

  FROM the ridge of the little headland they looked down into the cove, and most of their questions were immediately an
swered. The junk had gone, but the yacht was still there, aground on the sandy part of the beach with a list of forty-five degrees. She appeared to be undamaged. A number of men were busy erecting a tackle apparently with the intention of hauling her on to an even keel. A coloured man was in charge of the operation. The Colonel did not appear to be there.

  “Do you think they’ll be able to refloat her?” asked Ginger, softly.

  “Yes. It may take a little time but it shouldn’t be difficult, particularly as she went ashore at low water. High tide, with a little help, should see her off. They used to do this sort of thing deliberately in the old days to clean the bottoms of their ships.”

  “The junk must have got away after all. I wonder how it stood up to the storm.”

  “All right, probably. Going east it would be running before it, with plenty of sea room. Might even have run out of it. It would be different for the dhow, heading west or north-west. She’d find herself in the centre of it, with the whole string of islands to clear. It was as black as pitch, remember.”

  “I don’t think they can have realized yet that their cables were cut or they’d surely be looking for who did it.”

  “There’s a chance that the water frayed out the ends. From the stuff lying about, and those oil drums over there on the rocks, this place must be in regular use as a loading and unloading depot. And the refuelling station for the yacht. Ideal for the job, of course, particularly with unlimited supplies available. Well, that seems to be all.”

  “What’s the drill now?” queried Bertie.

  Biggles considered the question. “If I was sure Algy had got away I’d do nothing. Just wait. But as we’re by no means certain of that it might be a good thing to act as if he wasn’t coming back. Otherwise we might be fiddling about here for days, or weeks, and at the end find ourselves in the same position we are in now. We shall have to think about food and fresh water, anyway. Assuming Algy did get away what we shall have to bear in mind is this: he won’t know the Nakajima was burnt out last night. He’ll imagine it’s still here, on guard, and act accordingly. I mean, I doubt if he’ll come over in daylight. If he comes it will more likely be at night. Let’s have a look round. As most of the Colonel’s staff must be here on this job this should be as good a time as any. Keep your heads down.”

  They pushed their way up the jungle-covered bank, and reaching the top, taking care not to expose themselves, surveyed the airfield. It was clear at once that the rain had come just in time to save the whole place from being burnt out. At the far end, what had been herbage was now a coal-black waste. On this, close together, were the metal skeletons of the two aircraft that had gone up in flames. Three men were doing something in the wreck of the Dakota, recognizable by its two engines. One of the men was the Colonel. The hangars had been burnt out, but some of the smaller buildings, which stood at right angles to them on the leeward side, had escaped. Among these was the radio room, with its aerial.

  “I was hoping the fuel dump would blow up,” said Biggles.

  “Why didn’t it?”

  “It could be clear of the airfield, underground. It might be under the concrete apron. There wouldn’t be any inflammable stuff on that. When we came here, the most important thing I had in mind was to locate it. What’s the Colonel doing? He seems to be scraping about looking for something. The bodies must have been removed some time ago.”

  “Whatever it is he’s looking for he seems to be finding it,” observed Bertie. “He seems to be collecting things and putting ‘em in a heap.”

  “He must be trying to salvage something that was in the plane,” opined Ginger.

  “The only thing that could have survived the heat would be a metal object,” said Biggles. “Even that might melt, but it could still be here. Let’s get nearer to those buildings. There may be nobody there.”

  “What are you hoping to find? Anything in particular?”

  “Food, for one thing. Crabs and coconuts are not my idea of a diet.”

  “Absolutely, old boy. How right you are,” murmured Bertie.

  They began to wind their way through the jungle of scrub and small trees that fringed the airstrip, completely covering the bank that ran down to the beaches, the distance to the hutments being about three hundred yards. Between the trees it was sometimes possible to see the ocean. It had gone down a lot, but the waves were still running high, too high to permit the landing of a marine aircraft. Nor were any of the beaches long enough for a wheel landing. As Biggles remarked, in such conditions they need not look for Algy. With the Nakajima about, as he would suppose, he would think twice about making a reconnaissance in broad daylight. As he would not be able to pick them up even if he saw them there was no point in it. The Colonel would guess the machine was looking for somebody. Algy knew they were there. That was the important thing. To show himself prematurely would be taking an unnecessary risk. A landing on the actual airstrip was only to be contemplated in case of the most desperate emergency.

  By the time they were within striking distance of the nearest hut, an ordinary wooden frame building, they were also considerably nearer the burnt-out aircraft. The Colonel was still scraping about among the ashes. The pile of salvage was larger, but it was still impossible to see what it was. It might have been a heap of coke.

  “I fancy I know what the Colonel’s after,” said Biggles, as he stood watching from well inside the jungle. “There’s only one thing that I can think of for which he would go to so much trouble. If that machine was going to Ceylon it wouldn’t be going for the fun of it. It would be taking something. Something important, too, since the Count was in charge of it. Naturally, it would be contraband of some sort.”

  Ginger got it. “You mean—gold.”

  “That’s my guess. It would melt, and running through the airframe finish up with the ashes on the ground.”

  “That’s terrific,” declared Bertie. “What an awful time the poor blighter’s having, one way and another. You know, chaps, the odd thought strikes me that the storm has hit these stinkers harder than it has hit us. In fact, it has hit ‘em harder than we have—if you see what I mean.”

  “I’m not so sure that you’re right there,” answered Biggles. “They’ve had a nasty wallop, although it may not have knocked ‘em out, and for that we were mainly responsible, in that their programme for the past forty-eight hours was the direct result of knowing we were on their trail. For instance, we stumped their radio contact at Kutaradja, and they may have relied on him to give them warning of bad weather. When they saw what was coming they tried to rush things; but it was too late, with the result they’re in a worse mess than we are. As far as we know they’ve no aircraft, and thanks to Ginger’s brilliant stroke in cutting the yacht adrift, they are, temporarily, at any rate, without surface transport. Let’s move on and see what’s in these huts.”

  As they moved on they saw the Colonel supervising the transfer of the heap into two sacks, held by his assistants. This done he strode off in the direction of the cove, while the two men, with their loads slung over their backs, made for the huts.

  “I think you’re right about the gold,” said Ginger. “At all events, whatever it is they have in those sacks is heavy.”

  Advancing slowly and with great caution they reached the first hut, a long one, approaching it from the rear. The door faced the airstrip but a window— several windows, in fact—offered a view of the interior. One glance was enough to show that the building was what might have been expected. A workshop, with benches and tools about. Oil drums and jerry-cans were stacked at one end. There was no one there.

  “This must have been a busy place in the war when the Japs were here,” remarked Biggles. “Let’s go on.”

  Looking down the gap between the workshop and the next hut Biggles paused, contemplating the entrance to an underground room that still bore on the lintel a notice in Japanese.

  “Could that be the petrol dump?” questioned Ginger.

  “Looks more like a
n air raid shelter. There’s another farther along. Don’t forget this was a war-time set-up, and they could expect our boys along to give ‘em a taste of their own medicine.”

  They went on, ducking under a line of washing— native pantaloons, blouses and the like.

  From the bedding on the floor the next hut was obviously a dormitory. There was no one in it. Proceeding, the next hut turned out to be a mess-room, with benches and forms. There were kitchen arrangements at one end. Here a short fat Chinaman, stripped to the waist, was stirring what appeared to be a large pot of rice.

  Observed Biggles: “From the quantity of food that chap’s preparing most of that bunch working on the yacht will be coming back here presently to eat. They couldn’t all be members of the crew.”

  The next hut was the radio room. A man, wearing earphones, was sitting at the instrument reading a magazine with a lurid cover. Between this hut, and the next, the last one, lay a heap of oyster shells. Biggles smiled faintly as he pointed to them. “I’d say those are the shells that Tidore lost and so started the ball rolling. I wonder where the gold that was in them went.”

  The end hut was divided into two parts, one furnished in the manner of an office and the other as a bed-sitting room. Clearly, it was the Colonel’s quarters. Looking through the office window Biggles called attention to two sacks, apparently those which they had seen carried in from the scene of the crash.

  “There’s one more thing I’d like to locate and that’s the petrol store.” He pointed. “The most likely place is beside that pump, out in front. I don’t think we dare risk walking out into the open to check it. The Colonel or some of his boys are likely to show up at any minute. We know the general set-up of the place, anyway. I fancy the grub store must be that little place tacked on to the end of the kitchen. Where I’d like to get is in the Colonel’s office. Some of those papers should make interesting reading.”