Biggles at World's End

by W E Johns

  After about a quarter of an hour Biggles said: ‘We mustn’t spend too long at this or the light will be going. In fact, we’ve done enough. We’d better be moving. Smooth out the sand as if we’re trying to cover any traces of our having been here.’

  This was done, and the party, carrying the tools, returned to the aircraft, Biggles casting anxious glances at the sky and observing that the wind had veered a point or two which might mean a change of weather, although for better or worse was a matter for surmise. There were no indications, except that the wind seemed to be freshening.

  ‘You both know the drill,’ said Biggles, as they got into the machine. ‘I shall act as if we’re going straight home, grabbing a fair bit of altitude. When we’re at what I consider a safe distance away, that is, too far away for them to see us, I shall cut the engines and swing back, making a wide detour to come on the gold island from the far side.’

  ‘Isn’t there a chance they may see us?’ put in Ginger.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid there is, but we shall have to risk that. I’m hoping that having seen us heading up the Strait they’ll assume we’ve gone home, in which case, being busy with what they’re doing, they won’t bother to watch the sky. They certainly won’t hear us. The wind’s in the wrong direction. If they come over here we should be able to see them on the beach. That will be all I want to know. We’ll creep in, go down, satisfy ourselves that the bullion is there and then beat it for home. If there’s no hitch this should put an end to the daft game of in and out these perishing islands. I’ve had about enough of it, as would any pilot in his right mind. Let’s go.’

  ‘I’m with you, old boy, every time,’ agreed Bertie, fervently. ‘Never mind the snow on the tops of the bally mountains; I shall have snow on my top if this goes on much longer. I haven’t been warm since we got here. Give me islands where the bananas and coconuts grow.’

  ‘So say I,’ returned Ginger, with feeling.

  Biggles took off, and for the next twenty minutes followed the procedure he had outlined. This brought the machine to a point from which the islands with which they were concerned could be observed at a distance of between two and three miles. It was ironical, for now they knew where the gold lay it was no longer a factor of importance, that one of the first things Ginger noticed was that the two mountains which were to act as pointers were now in line. With the binoculars to his eyes, what interested him more was what he could see on the beach of the island they had just vacated.

  ‘You were dead right the way you worked it out,’ he told Biggles. ‘They’ve gone across. I can see their boat on the beach, at the spot where we did the digging. They’re both there, busy as beavers. That means I was right, too. They must have been watching us.’

  Biggles did not answer. The machine was now fairly low and still losing height, and Ginger saw he was staring down at something below them. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, quickly. The rowing boat has gone, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Biggles, grimly. ‘The boat’s gone, but there’s something else down there I don’t like the look of. There’s a growler smack in the middle of the fairway. And I can see more not far away that look as if they might drift in. It’s the change of wind that’s done it.’

  ‘What a pest! Does that mean we can’t get down?’

  ‘No, but it means taking a chance; and an even bigger chance that we may not be able to get off again. It would depend on which way that confounded lump of ice drifts.’

  ‘Go on down and have a closer look at it.’

  ‘I can’t make a trial run without using the engines, and if I do that it’ll give the game away. Those men will hear us and come tearing back.’

  ‘They’ve some way to come. They couldn’t get here before we’d done what we want to do.’

  ‘That may be, but I’d rather they didn’t know we’d been here.’

  ‘They’d hear us take off in any case.’

  ‘Not necessarily. It was my intention to taxi quietly away for some distance, into another channel, before taking off. The light isn’t too good, either.’

  ‘Well, you’ll soon have to make up your mind,’ advised Ginger.

  ‘I’ll chance it,’ decided Biggles. ‘I’m sick of this messing about. We could go on doing this sort of thing for weeks. In fact, with the weather getting slowly worse we might be stuck here for months. Tighten your belt. I’m going in.’

  Still without touching the throttle Biggles nosed his way down to what Ginger could see was a narrow channel between the beach and the floating mass of ice. Ginger moistened his lips. He did not need telling that the real danger lay not in what they could see but in what could not be seen: how far the ice floe spread under the water, only just submerged. He knew that for all that was visible there would be nine times as much below the surface. He also noticed with some dismay that there was a heavier sea running than he had supposed.

  Waves were breaking against the growler and on the beach. The urge to say ‘don’t risk it’ was great, but he knew better than to speak at such a vital moment.

  The Gadfly went in, Biggles tense, Ginger watching, silent. With one hand on the throttle ready to open up the instant danger threatened Biggles held the machine off as long as possible. She shuddered as a wave snatched at her keel, but Biggles steadied her and she settled down in a cloud of spray on the turbulent water. A gust of wind catching her on the quarter caused her to yaw rather badly, but a touch of the throttle straightened her and sent her on towards that end of the beach where, according to Carter, the treasure lay.

  Still Ginger did not speak although it was evident that the risks they were taking were becoming desperate. The growler, under the pressure of wind and water, was moving fast, and he could see others in the distance threatening to block the entrance to the channel. But it was not until Biggles had run the Gadfly on to the beach and he opened the door to get out that he realized with what velocity the wind was now blowing; and the bitter cold of it. It cut through his heavy clothes as though they had been muslin.

  Biggles jumped out and had to clutch at the hull to steady himself. He looked at the sky, at the water, at the ice, and at the spot only a few yards away where the gold was reported to be buried. He shook from his eyes the tears the icy blast had brought to them. Then he made up his mind. It’s no use,’ he shouted. ‘Let’s get out of this.’

  ‘It’ll only take five minutes to—’

  ‘Five minutes may be too long. The sea’s rising every second. And look at that ice!’

  Bertie put his head out. ‘What’s wrong, old boy?’

  ‘Everything,’ snapped Biggles. ‘Get back, we’re not staying.’

  Nobody argued. It was plain they may have left it too late already.

  They all bundled back into the aircraft. With spray torn from the tops of the waves lashing the windscreen Biggles put the machine back on the water and with engines roaring turned his nose into the wind.

  The next minute was one of those a pilot never forgets.

  In a way the wind helped in that it shortened the take-off run, which became series of bumps until a wave literally kicked the machine into the air. Even then, with high ground all around them she was not safe, and to make matters more difficult, as if they were not difficult enough, at that moment a flurry of sleet or snow, Ginger was not sure which, blotted out everything. Fortunately it was only a small isolated shower, and the Gadfly soon burst through to the clear sky above it.

  ‘Any ice?’ asked Biggles tersely, as he swung round to take up his course for home.

  Ginger’s eyes were already studying the leading edge of the wing. ‘Don’t see any.’

  ‘That’s something to be thankful for, anyway. What a climate. Save me from ever coming here again.’

  ‘That was a bit grisly, old boy,’ said Bertie, putting his head in. ‘Pity having to push off like that after having got so near to the jolly old golden bricks.’

  ‘Another five minutes would have done it,’ muttered Ginger, discon
solately.

  ‘Another five minutes could have seen us all in Davy Jones’s locker,’ declared Biggles, shortly. ‘I must have been off my rocker to attempt it. I could see what was happening, and what was likely to happen, but it’s the speed at which the weather here can change that makes the place such a devil’s kitchen. I know we were warned, but this sort of thing has to be seen to be believed.’

  ‘There is this about it,’ contributed Ginger. ‘With the sea in this state those fellows who crossed over to where they saw us digging won’t be able to get back to gold island. I wonder if they heard us take off.’

  ‘I doubt it, with that gale raging,’ answered Biggles. ‘They’re a nuisance.’

  ‘Things would have been difficult enough without them poking their noses in,’ grumbled Ginger.

  ‘That’s probably what they’re saying about us. Which reminds me. What about Gontermann? It wouldn’t surprise me if he came this way to see how his two little men are getting on. I don’t care how good a sailor he may be he can’t be happy sailing solo in these conditions. Well, here we are. I shan’t be sorry to get my feet on the ground.’

  Biggles did a circuit of the airfield and landed as the last of the twilight was fading out. Never, thought Ginger, had he seen an aerodrome look so gloomy or so depressing in its bleak loneliness.

  Vendez was there. He came to meet them. ‘So you managed to get back.’

  ‘Just about,’ returned Biggles.

  ‘I was thinking about you. According to the glass there’s dirty weather on the way.’

  ‘I’d say it’s already here.’

  ‘Did you find anything?’

  ‘Yes. Not much. We’ve seen what’s left of the Seaspray, lying in about three fathoms. One or two things had been washed ashore. We’ve picked up a diary and a book of specimens. When they’ve been dried they may be worth something to Carter.’

  ‘Did you see anything of Gontermann?’

  ‘No. Don’t tell me he’s gone for a sail in this weather.’

  ‘He told me he was going, and might be away for two or three days.’

  ‘He seems to take plenty of time off.’

  ‘He knows I can take care of things during his absence—not that there’s likely to be anything to do while this weather lasts.’

  ‘Well, we’ll get along home,’ said Biggles. ‘I could do with a bath and something hot inside me.’ He fetched the two documents they had found and showed them.

  ‘What are you going to do with them?’ asked Vendez.

  ‘Take them to the hotel and try to get them dry.’

  ‘You can leave them here if you like. There’s always a fire in my office. I can dry them for you.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. Take them by all means.’ Biggles handed them over. ‘We’ll be seeing you,’ he concluded, turning away.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ asked Ginger, as they walked over to the car.

  ‘Why not? You heard what he said. Besides, we could always use those books as evidence as to our intentions. I’m thinking of Gontermann. No doubt Vendez will show them to him when he comes back.’

  ‘I wouldn’t shed any tears if he didn’t come back,’ said Ginger, as they got in the car.

  ‘Don’t be ungenerous,’ reproved Biggles. ‘He hasn’t hurt us—yet. I wonder if Algy has any news. Let’s see.’

  They arrived back at the hotel to find Algy just beginning to get anxious about them, for he had of course seen the weather deteriorating. He had news. Important news. The information for which they had been waiting. A letter had arrived by air mail from the Air Commodore, and in accordance with Biggles’ instructions he had opened it.

  The gist of it was, the Royal Navy frigate Petrel, Captain Anderson, had been detached from Port Stanley, Falkland Islands Station, officially on a training exercise, to collect the ‘property’. It would leave its base on or about April 23, and would call at Punta Arenas to pick Biggles up.

  ‘That seems all straightforward,’ observed Algy. ‘You will presumably go on board and act as a guide to the property, as they so cautiously put it.’

  ‘I suppose it’s all right,’ replied Biggles, dubiously.

  ‘Why, what’s wrong about it?’

  ‘In the first place I wouldn’t swear that I could find my way, at water level, through that maze of channels to the island. We know the place well enough from the air, but from the carpet it might be a different matter. However, I can get over that by having another look at it and maybe making a sketch map of the best way to go.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. I’m not happy about the date. You’ll notice the chief says on or about the twenty-third. The operative word is about. Tomorrow will be the twenty-third, so the Petrel could have left already. On the other hand she might not leave for another two or three days. I would have preferred something more definite. I suppose there were reasons why a date couldn’t be given. But perhaps it doesn’t matter. I shall be here when the ship arrives, anyway.’

  ‘How long will it take her to get here?’ Ginger asked the question.

  ‘That’s bound to depend on the weather. Speaking from memory the Falklands are roughly three hundred miles from the Magellan Strait. Punta is, say, another hundred miles on. With a clear run the Petrel shouldn’t take long to get here, but fog or heavy seas would delay her. There must be a heavy sea running now. It was rough even in the shelter of the islands, as we jolly well know. We nearly bought it trying to get off. All we can say is, the Petrel should be here within the next week. That’s a bit vague, but neither the Air Commodore nor the Admiralty can have any idea that the operation is anything but straightforward. From our angle, with Gontermann and his pals in the offing it’s anything but that.’

  ‘Will you still do another trip to locate the exact position of the bullion?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘Definitely. A few hours should be enough for that and we have plenty of time. All the evidence we have at present is hearsay, and I’ve learned not to rely too much on that. I’d like to see the stuff with my own eyes, as the saying is; then there can be no mistake about it.’

  ‘But look here, I say, old boy, Carter and Barlow struck me as being reliable types, and all that,’ protested Bertie.

  ‘I don’t question their honesty, but even people with the best intentions in the world have been known to make a mistake. And, for some reason, that seems to happen more often when a lot of money is involved. That may be why treasures known to exist are seldom found. Well, there’s nothing more we can do about it. Given a fair day tomorrow we should be able to get our part of the business buttoned up. After that all we have to do is sit here and wait for the Petrel to show up.’

  CHAPTER 12

  GONTERMANN PULLS A FAST ONE

  ONE glance out of the window the following morning was enough to dash any hopes of settling the business that day— at least, as far as a trip to gold island was concerned. A gale was raging, with an unbroken blanket of indigo cloud sweeping low over the storm-tossed water. A mixture of rain and sleet, driven horizontally on the face of the wind, reduced visibility down to a few yards.

  ‘That decides any possible argument about doing any flying to-day,’ said Biggles philosophically, lighting a cigarette. ‘If it lets up this side of sundown I shall be surprised. I’m not aviating in that for all the gold in the Bank of England.’

  ‘It looks as if this might go on for a week,’ remarked Ginger, moodily.

  ‘According to the book it might easily do that—or longer,’ replied Biggles. ‘This is where we kick our heels.’

  Evening came without a break in the cloud, or even a promise of one. The wind howled. Rain and sleet slashed the window, sliding down the glass like half-cooked tapioca.

  ‘If Gontermann’s out in that I wish him joy,’ said Algy, looking at it.

  They stayed at home.

  The next day was a little better, but not much. It was clear that the storm was still far from blowing itself out. After lunch,
fretting with impatience, really for the sake of something to do Biggles said he would take the car as far as the mole to see if by any chance the Petrel had arrived earlier than expected. The others, just as bored from having nothing to do, decided to go with him.

  A surprise awaited them. The meat-loading refrigerator ships had gone, but another was there; a long, dark-hulled vessel that looked a real salt-water craft.

  ‘A whaler,’ remarked Biggles, without any particular interest, only to come to a sudden stop as if something had caught his eye, as in fact it had. ‘Look at the flag she’s flying,’ he went on, in a different tone of voice.

  Ginger looked, and saw the Hammer and Sickle. ‘Russian,’ was all he said.

  ‘Yes,’ returned Biggles, frowning. ‘While we’re here we might as well have a word with Mr Scott to see if he has any news.’

  They went on to the ship’s chandler’s establishment. ‘Do you happen to know if Gontermann has come back?’ he asked, after greetings had been exchanged. ‘I believe he was out in his boat when this dirty weather rolled up.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him,’ was the reply. ‘The Wespe isn’t at its usual mooring. He’d probably run for shelter when he saw what was coming. I doubt if he’d try to fight his way home in the teeth of the wind.’ Then, indicating the whaler, he added as an afterthought: ‘They’re waiting for him.’