Orchids for Biggles

by W E Johns

  He found the establishment open, and as it turned out Maria was there.

  A man, the sinister-looking individual who had been serving behind the bar the previous night, was mopping the floor in a desultory manner. In a dirty singlet, pants, and pair of sloppy slippers, unshaven and unwashed, he presented an even less attractive picture. However, he was polite enough when Biggles, after wishing him a cheerful buenos dias, said he had called to see Maria, if that were possible. Leaning on his mop the man looked curious but refrained from asking why. He said Maria was his daughter. She was upstairs. He would ask her to come down.

  In due course Maria appeared. In the cold light of day she looked very different from what she had in the soft lamplight. In fact, she looked such a drab, heavy-eyed creature that Biggles felt sorry for her in the life she had to lead, dancing every night before a crowd of drunken llaneros. He asked her to sit down and invited her to have a drink. She said she would have a beer. Her father brought it.

  ‘I have come because I think you may be able to help me, señorita,’ began Biggles, frankly. ‘Last night I was here in the bar—’

  ‘Yes. I saw you.’

  ‘Sitting near me was a friend.’ Biggles smiled. ‘You sat on his lap — remember?’

  Maria scowled. ‘He threw me away.’

  ‘He meant no offence. He is afraid of women.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some men are like that. But the point is this. After leaving here he decided to take a walk for some fresh air. Someone hit him on the head and he was injured. I am trying to find out who struck him, and more particularly, for what reason. He had no quarrel with anyone.’

  Maria raised her hands, palms upwards. ‘What is remarkable about this? It happens all the time. Was he robbed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why should you think I know anything about this?’

  ‘I thought you may have heard something about it. He was left lying in the street.’

  ‘This is the first I have heard of it.’

  ‘You didn’t see anyone about last night who might have done it?’

  ‘I didn’t go out last night, so how could I have seen anyone?’ lied the girl, brazenly.

  ‘I thought I saw you go out with Señor Salvador,’ suggested Biggles.

  ‘I don’t know this man,’ declared Maria.

  ‘He was in here last night.’

  ‘So were many people. I don’t know everyone.’

  ‘I thought if Señor Salvador was a regular customer he might—’

  ‘I have never heard of this Salvador,’ insisted Maria, rudely, and getting up strode away into the back regions.

  Biggles realized he had wasted his time, and may have done more harm than good. It was obvious he would learn nothing from Maria, who to his certain knowledge had lied from start to finish of the conversation. Why? Why had she denied all knowledge of Salvador? Was she trying to protect him? He came to the conclusion that however jealous she might be of Dolores, and in spite of the row which Bertie had witnessed, she was in love with the man. The alternative was he was paying her well to keep her mouth shut about anything she might know.

  Biggles got up, paid for the drink and returned to the hotel. Dolores was in her usual place. She gave him a smile, which he returned, and went on upstairs to find Bertie out of bed taking some soup which the patron had brought him. He was obviously much better, and his question ‘Any luck?’ was in his normal voice.

  ‘Nothing doing,’ answered Biggles. ‘I found nothing of interest at the place where you were coshed. On the way back I saw Maria, but all I got out of her was a string of lies. Either she’s in love with Salvador or she’s too scared to talk.’ Biggles grinned. ‘Or maybe she just didn’t like the look of me. I sent a message to Don Pedro before I went out, asking if he could send José along. If he’s coming he should soon be here. As you seem to be all right I’ll go down and wait for him.’

  ‘Okay, old boy. I shall probably come down myself presently.’

  Biggles went down, and taking one of the chairs beside a row of small tables under an awning, settled down to wait.

  About half an hour later, to his relief, José appeared on his pony. He rode into the yard. Biggles followed him, and having seen the pony tethered took the negro to a shady corner.

  ‘I need your help again, compadre,’ he said seriously, and went on to tell of Bertie’s misadventure. ‘I want to know who did it, and for what reason,’ he continued. ‘I have a suspicion that this man Salvador knows something about it. I don’t think Salvador is his real name. He reminds me of a crook known to the police in England. Dolores seems to know him well so I want you to speak to her again. It was she who found Señor Lissie lying unconscious on the path last night. Find out if she knows anything about it. Try to find out the name on the letters she collects at the post-office for Salvador. It may not be Salvador. Be careful how you ask the questions. Pretend it isn’t important. Find out anything she knows about Salvador. You understand?’

  ‘Si, señor. But dis man Salvador does everything like a man of this country.’

  ‘So he may, but if he’s the man I think he is his parents came from Europe. Do you think Dolores will talk to you?’

  ‘Sure. We bin good friends long time.’

  Biggles took out his wad of notes and handed some to José. Take these. Some money may help. I’ll wait here. There’s no hurry.’

  ‘I find out everything,’ promised José, optimistically, and walked off.

  Biggles lit a cigarette and prepared to wait.

  It was some time before José came back, but when he did a broad smile suggested success. And so it transpired.

  ‘Dolores tell me everything,’ he said proudly, as he walked up. ‘She collects letters for a man name of Neckel. Salvador tells Dolores dis man Neckel friend of his.’

  Biggles could hardly repress a smile of satisfaction. So he had been right. Not for an instant did he believe this tale about a friend. Salvador was Neckel. But it would have to be confirmed. There was just a chance that Neckel was hiding in the Casa Floresta as a guest of Salvador.

  ‘Letter comes for Neckel today,’ went on Jose. ‘Come from England.’

  ‘How do you know it came from England?’

  ‘I see English stamp.’

  ‘Did Dolores show you the letter?’

  ‘Sure. She takes it Casa Floresta tonight.’

  ‘Why isn’t she meeting Salvador at the Bar Francisco as usual?’

  ‘Because trouble with Maria. Two women always make trouble. Dolores she don’ want to see Maria no more.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘I can understand that. Maria thinks Dolores has taken Salvador away from her.’

  ‘Das right.’

  ‘What else does Dolores know?’

  ‘She swear to me de first thing she knows about Senor Lissie is when she finds him lying beside road at top end of street. She nearly falls over him.’

  ‘What was she doing there?’

  ‘She says she’s bin to house with Salvador. Calls it Casa Floresta.’

  ‘I happen to know that’s true, anyway. Then she doesn’t know who hit Senor Lissie?’

  ‘No, sah.’

  ‘She didn’t see anyone about?’

  ‘She say the only man she sees near house was Carlo, a coloured man Salvador has there to keep people away. He don’ like people near house.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, señor. Das de lot.’

  ‘Thank you, José. You’ve done splendidly. Dolores must like you.’

  José grinned. ‘She like me plenty. We old friends.’

  ‘Why don’t you marry her?’

  Jose sighed. ‘Don Pedro won’t have no women about de place.’

  ‘Did you give Dolores the money?’

  ‘Sure. She mighty happy. Buy new dress, better than Maria.’

  ‘Good. And what are you going to do now?’

  ‘Don Pedro no want me back straight away. If you wan
t me I stay. Mebbe go back tomorrow.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘You mean you’re staying in town for a little while so that you can see Dolores again.’

  Jose showed his white teeth in another grin. ‘Das right, señor.’

  ‘In that case you may learn something more about Salvador. I’ll see you again before you go.’

  ‘Si, señor.’ José strolled away.

  Deep in thought Biggles watched him walk out into the plaza. So that was it, he mused. It now seemed almost certain that Salvador was Neckel. If that was correct it seemed equally certain that the missing documents were somewhere in the Casa Floresta. The next problem was how to get them, for no doubt they would be carefully hidden.

  He made his way to the bar where he found Bertie, his head still bandaged of course, sitting at one of the small tables with a long drink at his elbow. Joining him he related the information he had just received from Jose.

  ‘Jolly good,’ said Bertie. ‘What’s the next move?’

  ‘I don’t think we can do anything more for the moment. I’d like to have a look at this Casa Floresta, but apparently Salvador keeps a guard on duty and if he spotted me prowling about it might start something, in which case I’d have done more harm than good. A better plan, I think, would be for me to follow Dolores when she goes there tonight with that letter, to watch what happens.’

  ‘Don’t forget what happened to me.’

  ‘I shall keep that in mind, you may be sure. I should be able to see where Dolores goes when she gets there. With luck I might even be able to overhear a conversation. That letter from England, by the way, must be the one the Air Commodore told me was being sent. It would be interesting to see how Salvador reacts when he reads it. He won’t waste any time doing that, because if I know the type he must be pretty sick of hanging around in this dead-and-alive hole. I admit this all sounds a bit vague, but I can’t think of anything else we can do for the moment. If I learn nothing tonight I shall have to risk exploring in daylight. I shall have to get the layout of the place in my mind before there can be any question of breaking in.’

  ‘You think it’ll come to that?’

  ‘We’ve got to get those papers, and they won’t come to us. I can’t imagine Salvador walking about with them in his pocket. If I thought that I’d have no compunction in going to any length to take them off him. They’re British Government property, and he stole them.’

  ‘True enough, old boy. I’m with you there.’

  ‘How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Not too bad. By tonight I should be fit enough to come with you, if you think I might help.’

  ‘No thanks.’ Biggles was emphatic. ‘You’re staying at home until you’re absolutely fit; and you may have to be before this job is finished. Anything can happen.’ Biggles got up. ‘Let’s go through and have some lunch.’

  CHAPTER 8

  DEATH INTERVENES

  THE rest of the day passed quietly. The only thing that happened was a visit from the Intendente to see how Bertie was getting on and to say he had been unable to find the man who had knocked him down. In the circumstances this came as no surprise to Biggles, but he did not say so. The great thing was they were still on good terms with the official, whose help they might need before the end of their assignment. They drank some wine together.

  After that there was nothing to do until nightfall, when Dolores might be expected to take the letter to the Casa Floresta.

  When that time came Biggles did not go to the Bar Francisco, this being unnecessary. Knowing which way the girl must go to get to the house he walked along the track until he was just short of the fork and then settled down to wait, knowing she would have to pass him. He found a comfortable spot in some ferns close to the track, which was all he could do. It proved to be a long and tiresome business, with the mosquitoes a nuisance, although this was to be expected.

  The night was hot and dark, the starlight hardly penetrating the canopy of leaves overhead. The air was heavy with humidity, and apart from the hum of the mosquitoes and an occasional stealthy rustling in the forest, silence reigned, a profound hush as if everything was waiting for something to happen. Time dragged along on leaden feet as it usually does when one is keyed up yet forced to keep still.

  It must have been nearly eleven when Biggles heard the sound for which he had waited for so long: the quick pad of footsteps on soft earth. A shadowy figure loomed, walking so quickly that it passed on in a moment, before there could be any question of recognition. In the gloom this would have been difficult, anyway. All Biggles could be sure of was that it was a woman, so he could only assume, with a fair amount of confidence, that it was Dolores, on her way to the Casa Floresta with the letter. It was disconcerting not to know definitely that it was her, but for that, in such conditions, he was prepared. There was no way of overcoming that difficulty. Anyhow, he was sure few women used the track at that hour of night.

  In a moment he was out of his hiding place, listening intently, hoping that by the soft patter of footsteps he would be able to confirm that the nocturnal traveller had taken the left fork to the house. He could see nothing.

  Then, as he stood there, from a little way ahead there came sounds that stiffened his muscles and set his nerves quivering. They were a gasp, a scream that ended in a moan, and a thud as if someone had fallen. An instant later he could hear swift footsteps approaching.

  He flung himself back into the ferns just in time. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a black-draped figure running towards the town, but could not tell who it was. It had gone in a flash.

  For some seconds he lay still. Not until the footsteps had faded away did he move. Then, rising to his feet, he stared, eyes trying to probe the darkness, up and down the track, braced for a quick move should the necessity arise. He could hear no sound. Nothing stirred. The forest had resumed its sinister silence. What had happened? Such a scream could only mean tragedy. The very atmosphere seemed suddenly brittle with foreboding. Who had done what, to whom? Wiping sweat and mosquitoes from his forehead with his sleeve, with his heart thumping uncomfortably, he advanced slowly, a step at a time, towards the fork, a mere yard or two farther on. It was from there, he judged, that the scream had come.

  A few paces and his questing eyes made out a long dark object lying across the track. Another step and doubt departed. It was a body. A skirt told him it was a woman. Again for a moment he stood tense, looking up and down and trying to peer into the dark jungle on either side; then, kneeling beside the body he felt it with his hands, hoping to learn something. He did. She was lying face down, and he caught his breath sharply as they came into contact with an object protruding from her back. It was a handle; the handle of a knife, or a blade of some sort.

  Still he could not see who she was. Taking out his petrol lighter he flicked it on. The feeble flame told him what he wanted to know. It was Dolores. That she was dead he did not doubt, for a stiletto had been driven in to the hilt and must have pierced her heart. Her dress, bright blue, looked new. The thought struck Biggles that this must be the one she had bought with the money José had given her. She had bought it to compete with Maria for Salvador’s affection. Poor kid, he thought. He had no great regard for the girl, but he was conscious of a sudden flood of pity. Whatever her character might be she did not deserve this.

  He turned the body over. In doing this he exposed a small, white, square object. He picked it up. It was a letter, the one, presumably, she had collected at the post-office, and was on her way to deliver to Salvador. Apparently she had been carrying it in her hand, and had dropped it when she had been struck. He looked at the address. The envelope was smeared with blood, but he could make out the name; Mr H. Neckel, and a post-office number at Cruzuado. The stamp was British. He put the letter in his pocket. The contents at that moment did not interest him. He could guess what they were. Without touching the fatal blade he lifted the body to the side of the track, and replacing the lighter in his pocket stood motionless, wondering w
hat he should do in a situation far removed from anything he could have imagined. Now that the first shock had passed he was able to think; and he saw he had plenty to think about. His own position was a dangerous one, or it would be if someone came along and saw him standing by the body, still limp and not yet cold in death.

  He thought fast. Who had killed the girl? He was almost sure it was a woman, for he fancied he had caught the swish of skirts as the figure had rushed past him on the way to the town. Maria, of course, was the first person to come to his mind. She had a motive. Jealousy. They had quarrelled, and the stiletto had been used with hatred behind the blow. The awful thought struck him that he might unwittingly have been responsible for the girl’s death. She had talked. Perhaps said too much to José. If that had become known she might have been murdered for that reason. But somehow he did not think that was the answer. It seemed far more likely that if Maria had known, or guessed, that Dolores was going to the Casa Floresta, she might well have decided to dispose of her rival once and for all. It would have been a simple matter to lie in wait for her, and coming up behind her stab her as she went past. Biggles did not overlook that he was in a country where blood ran hot, and murder was a common event. Or so he had been told.

  With his brain racing it was clear he would have to make up his mind what he was going to do. And quickly. Three courses he could see were open to him. The first was to put himself in the clear by going away and saying nothing to anybody about what he had seen and heard. That would be the easy way out. But he did not entertain the idea for long. It was too utterly callous. He could not bring himself to leave the girl lying there, probably until daylight the next day, a prey to any vermin that might come along. After all, she had helped him. Moreover she was a close friend of José.