by W E Johns
CONTENTS
SYNOPSIS
GEOGRAPHICAL NOTE
CHAPTER 1: A TRAGEDY RECALLED
CHAPTER 2: CAPTAIN MACDONALD SPEAKS HIS MIND
CHAPTER 3: HOG ISLAND
CHAPTER 4: THE FIRST SURVEY
CHAPTER 5: AN UNPLEASANT VISITOR
CHAPTER 6: GINGER HAS A FRIGHT
CHAPTER 7: MORE PROBLEMS
CHAPTER 8: BERTIE GETS TOUGH
CHAPTER 9: ANOTHER CLUE
CHAPTER 10: MORE VISITORS
CHAPTER 11: WHAT HAPPENED AT MERGUI
CHAPTER 12: YOMAS TRIES AGAIN
CHAPTER 13: THE MYSTERY MAN
CHAPTER 14: THE BIG QUESTION
CHAPTER 15: THE LAST ROUND
BIGGLES AND THE LOST SOVEREIGNS
With a necklace of twenty golden sovereigns round his neck, a dead native is found drifting in a canoe among the islands off the Malay Peninsula. Had the money any link with the cargo of twenty thousand like them on board the schooner Vagabond when it pulled out of Singapore more than twenty years before—and vanished!
GEOGRAPHICAL NOTE
THE MERGUI ARCHIPELAGO
Mergui is both a district and a small port on the Isthmus of Kra, the northern part of the Malay Peninsula. The town is not much more than a pearling station on the coast of Lower Burma, washed by the tropic waters of the Bay of Bengal in the Indian Ocean.
If the reader will look at his atlas he will see, off the coast, stretching for nearly 300 miles in an irregular line, a sprinkling of what might be fly specks. These are islands, and the whole is known as the Mergui Archipelago. There are hundreds of islands, mostly of a rocky nature but well furnished with timber and jungle. Some have sandy beaches, others are girt with mangrove swamps.
A few of the largest are inhabited, but the great majority are not, if we exclude a primitive tribe of seafaring natives, called Salones, who, in dug-out canoes and home-made boats, wander from island to island in search of food. This consists chiefly of crabs and limpets, although they will kill a wild pig or deer if an opportunity occurs. They have little idea of the value of money but make a precarious living by pearling, collecting edible birds’ nests and bêche de mer (sea slugs, a Chinese delicacy) which they barter for rice, opium and alcohol, to which they are addicted.
They are harmless, simple people, living for the most part in their boats. They speak a language of their own, but some understand Malay from contact with the mainland. Naturally, from long association they know the islands and the waters round them better than anyone.
The reader may wonder why so many islands bear names of living creatures. The reason is not hard to find. Every island must have a name by which it can be identified if only for navigation purposes, and the islands of the world are almost beyond count. It has been estimated there are 10,000 in the Indian Ocean alone. How were names to be found for all of them?
A common practice of navigators in the great days of discovery, when the oceans of the world were for the first time being explored, was for men to name islands, or groups of islands, after themselves; but to avoid duplication this could only be done once. The same applied when captains named islands after their patrons—kings, princes, dukes and admirals. In a moment of fancy a captain would name an island after a member of his crew, perhaps the man who was the first to sight the new piece of land. In this way the islands of the Seven Seas were (and still are) dotted with the names of thousands of mariners now dead and forgotten.
Animals were another obvious choice, either from the shape of the island or because the particular animal was found there. To take a few at random, we have Dog Island, Cat, Cow, Bull, Calf, Goat, Elephant and Hog Islands. Other creatures were called in: Fish Island, Bird, Crane, Serpent and Whale Island, for examples. This did not prevent duplication, for there are several Egg Islands and at least six Wolf Islands. The vegetable world is represented by Cocos Islands (twice), Nut Island, Apple, Pine, Hazel and Raisin Island. There is an island for every day of the week, every season, and for every saint in the calendar. The Indian Ocean can boast of the Twelve Apostles.
Eventually there must have been a shortage of names, for we end up with Tin Can Island, and even a Hole-in-the-Wall Island.
W.E.J.
CHAPTER 1
A TRAGEDY RECALLED
The log, or what appeared to be a log, moved forward slowly and submerged in a swirl of greasy mud that threw up bubbles of evil-smelling gas. Police pilot Ginger Hebblethwaite, who had put a foot forward to use the supposed log as a stepping stone, withdrew it quickly, and held on more tightly to the tangle of roots that were his support. His eyes probed the green twilight around him. Seeing nothing of interest he mopped his dirt-streaked face with an already sweat-soaked handkerchief, and deciding there seemed little point in going on prepared to retire. He had had enough.
For this he was not to be blamed, for on the entire face of the earth there is not a more unpleasant, uncomfortable place, than a mangrove swamp. It is for this reason, no doubt, that no race of human beings has ever attempted to establish homes on such a site.
The glossy green mangrove is a strange tree both in appearance and habits, as indeed it has to be to survive. It is, in fact, a masterpiece of adaption to the conditions in which it flourishes. It occurs only in tropical or subtropical regions and then always on the coast where a river or surface water meets the sea. At such places the water is usually brown with silt, mud and decaying vegetable matter. On contact with salt water this is deposited to form shoals of stinking bottomless slime.
At low tide it can be observed that the tree does not rise in a single trunk but from a large number of tall, arched, stilt-like roots, creating an impression that it is growing upside-down. From the trunk and branches hang more roots. Near the water these break into several fingers. Reaching the mud they claw their way in to form yet another support. These roots and branches are generally encrusted with shellfish which form the staple food of the monkeys that live overhead. There are other strange creatures, too, on the branches, notably fish and eels that climb up out of the mud.
To thicken the tangle there are seedlings. These germinate on the branches and remain attached, always growing, until they have the appearance of Indian clubs with pointed ends. When they fall they go down deep into the mud and so another tree is born. These advance always onwards into the sea. Silt and rubbish collect about the roots eventually to form soil. During this process the original trees, now some distance from the sea, deprived of salt, begin to die off. They fall and their place is taken by ordinary forest trees. In this way, what was swamp becomes solid ground, and thus new land is constantly added to islands and continents.
If the stench of slime and putrefying vegetable matter, with its oily scum and the bubbles of gas it discharges, is nauseating, the reptiles and insects that make it their home, preying on each other, are creatures of a nightmare. Crocodiles there are, of course, and snakes of all sizes and colours. Crabs and other crustaceans climb about over hideous bloated fungi, often brilliantly coloured. Biting and stinging bugs, beetles and mosquitoes, swarm in millions. In a word, hot, poisonous and fever-ridden, a mangrove swamp is without doubt the most unhealthy place in the world.
It is time, therefore, to discover what Ginger was doing in one.
It all began a month earlier when Air Commodore Raymond called Biggles to his office. ‘How would you like to take a nice quiet holiday?’ he asked.
‘That depends on where it’s to be,’ returned Biggles suspiciously, reaching for a cigarette.
‘How about the Mergui Archipelago? If my memory serves me you’ve been there before.’
‘That’s correct, sir. But it was a long time ago. In
fact, before the war.’
‘What took you there?’
‘I was a civil pilot at the time. You must remember recommending me for the job of investigating the disappearance in the Indian Ocean of a number of cargo ships bound for the Far East and Australia with munitions. It turned out that certain people, in anticipation of the war, had the bright idea of establishing a submarine refuelling station in an old crater in the middle of Elephant Island. It could only be reached through a cave at low water.’
Recollection dawned in the Air Commodore’s eyes. ‘Of course. That’s right. So much has happened that pre-war events tend to fade like a dream.’
‘What I remember most about the islands, attractive though some of them are to look at, were the most hellish sand-flies I’ve ever struck anywhere. I hope you’re not going to tell me that history is repeating itself and the same sort of thing is going on?’
‘No. With so much trouble brewing everywhere I can’t imagine anyone bothering with a lot of fiddling little islands.’
‘Some of them are not so small—as tropic islands go.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. Still, something seems to be going on. I have a report here and I thought it would be a good thing to discuss it with you. It may not be such a queer business as it looks on paper.’
‘As I assume the islands now belong to Burma, an independent state, is this any concern of ours?’
‘Officially, that’s a difficult question to answer. As the trouble seems to be at the southern end of the Archipelago, Thailand and Malaya may claim an interest in the offshore islands. However, I doubt if anyone would go to war over them.’
‘Thinking of an operational base, they’re some distance from Singapore, or even Penang.’
‘That’s true; but there are airfields, originally built by us, all down the Isthmus—Tavoy, Phuket, Alor Star—on the old Imperial air route. But before we go into this let me tell you what the fuss is about. It was started by the skipper of an ancient coaster of eighty tons, named the Alora, which operates a service between Singapore and Tavoy, calling at villages with mail and mixed freight, and picking up on the way back rice, timber, hides and other local produce.’
‘Who’s this craft owned by?’
‘A Chinese concern with its head office in Singapore. The skipper, who has a native crew, is a crusty old Scot named Macdonald. He seems to be a character, known to everyone as Mac. He’s been on that particular run for more years than anyone can remember, so it follows that he knows the coast and the islands probably better than any other white man. He also knows all the local languages, and there are plenty. Once a year he lays up at Singapore to refit.’
‘Are all these details really necessary?’ queried Biggles.
‘Yes, because it’s on this man, and his character, that the story I’m going to tell you rests. To give you an idea. When Singapore fell to the Japs during the war he loaded up his old tub with refugees till her deck was awash and took them across to Sumatra. He did that several times under the noses of the Japanese, and in spite of being bombed and shot at by aircraft he managed to get away with it. When the Japs finally occupied Singapore he slipped away and hid his ship somewhere among the islands till it was all over.’
‘Must be a stout feller.’
‘He’s obviously as tough as they make ’em. Now that’s understood we can come to the point. Some time ago, when he was in Singapore, he walked into Government House, demanded to see the Governor, and tossed on his desk a piece of dirty cord on which had been strung—no, I won’t ask you to guess what, because you couldn’t, not in a hundred years. Sovereigns. Twenty golden sovereigns. Holes had been roughly bored through them so that together they formed a necklace.’
Biggles smiled. ‘Very nice, too. Naturally, he’d be invited to explain how he’d come by this unusual piece of jewellery.’
‘Of course. His story, and the truth of it needn’t be doubted because remember he was under no obligation to show anyone what he’d found, was this. On his last return trip through the islands, where he’d gone to pick up a load of mangrove bark, which is used for tanning, he’d come upon a canoe with a dead man in it; an old man of one of the tribes that drift about the islands. The sovereigns were round his neck. The body was in no state for a post mortem examination, but a festering wound in the shoulder suggested he had been shot. Macdonald removed the necklace and dumped the body in the sea, which in that climate was about all he could do with it. Then, knowing the old man must have been a member of a party, or family group, he cruised about until he found it.’
‘Hoping to learn where the coins had come from?’
‘Naturally. That’s what most people would do. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Too true.’
‘Unfortunately the answer was not forthcoming.’
Biggles sighed. ‘It seldom is when the metal is yellow.’
‘The Salones, as apparently these natives are called, thought they knew who the dead man must be. Being old he had become quarrelsome and had been kicked out of the party. That was some time ago. They had seen nothing of him since. Macdonald showed them the necklace. They shook their heads. They had never seen it before. The old man hadn’t got it when he had left them. They could offer no explanation as to where the thing had come from. They were not particularly interested. Living as they do they have little idea of the value of money, and they certainly wouldn’t realize that the coins represented what to them would be a fortune.’
‘Could they offer a suggestion as to why the old man had been shot?’
‘No, but an odd point arises here. They weren’t surprised, the reason being that they themselves had been shot at.’
‘By whom?’
‘They had no idea.’
‘Queer. Obviously the old man wasn’t shot for his gold chain or it would have been taken—unless of course he got away wounded and died later. Yet, but for the gold, who would have any reason for killing the old man?’
‘I can’t imagine. Anyhow, this was making life difficult for the wretched natives who didn’t know why they had been shot at or if it was likely to happen again. They had to land for food.’
‘Did Macdonald do anything about it?’
‘He had a look round some of the nearest islands, but he found nothing. He couldn’t go on. He had his job to do. The south-west monsoon was due and he was anxious to get to Singapore before the bad weather broke.’
‘Was anything more done about this?’
‘Oh yes. Singapore asked the Burmese Government if they had heard of any trouble in the islands. They said no. They had no objection to a British ship having a look round if it was thought necessary. So the navy sent along a frigate.’
‘Presumably hoping to get on the track of the sovereigns.’
‘Of course. There was a very good reason. Some landings were made, but nothing was found. That wasn’t surprising. It would be a tremendous task to comb all the islands thoroughly.’
‘And there the matter rests, as they say.’
‘For the moment.’
‘You say there was a good reason for the search; which I take to mean the government thinks there may be more sovereigns where those on the necklace came from.’
‘They don’t merely think. They know.’
‘Ah! Now we’re getting down to it. Carry on, sir.’
‘Those twenty sovereigns formed a part of a specially minted consignment of twenty thousand sent before the war to a British bank in Singapore.’
‘How is it possible to be certain of that? One sovereign is identical with another.’
‘Not entirely. Dates can be different, and usually are. As I have said, these were mint new, and every one bore the same date—1938. The Bank of England has confirmed that these were the only gold coins showing that date sent East. On arrival at the bank at Singapore they were put in the vault as a gold reserve and not touched again until February 1942, when the Japs were so close it was clear Singapore was doomed. In the hope of prevent
ing the gold from falling into the hands of the enemy, the money, still in its original packing of lead foil, was taken from the vault and put aboard a British-owned luxury schooner of ninety tons, named Vagabond, which was going on to Calcutta. It didn’t arrive. In fact, after the Vagabond left Singapore, it was never to our knowledge seen again.’
‘So we begin to see chinks of daylight in the mystery of the golden necklace,’ murmured Biggles. ‘Why put the stuff on a schooner? I should have thought a battleship —’
‘The navy was too busy doing other things. At that time the gold was of minor importance. In any case it would have come to the same thing at the end. I needn’t remind you that the two battleships available, the Repulse and the Prince of Wales, both went to the bottom of the Gulf of Siam. There is now good reason to suppose that the Vagabond, running into trouble, bad weather, or more probably from enemy action, made for the islands and either beached herself or went down in shallow water. The Vagabond was a wooden ship, so by the time the war ended, roughly four years later, there wouldn’t be much sign of her unless she was thrown high and dry.’
‘Something of the sort must have happened or it would not have been possible for that old native to hang some of the sovereigns round his neck. Obviously, he found the wreck of the Vagabond, and being alone was the only living person to know where it lay.’
‘And now, being dead, he can’t show anyone the spot.’
‘I wonder if the gold had anything to do with his being shot,’ said Biggles thoughtfully. ‘I take it no survivors of the Vagabond have ever turned up?’
‘Not one.’
‘If that is correct it means that today, apart from a few government officials, there isn’t a living soul who knows about the gold.’
‘So we must assume.’
‘A lot of people may have taken refuge on the islands during the Japanese occupation of the mainland.’
‘No doubt, but they’d hardly be likely to stay there when the war was over.’
‘Someone may have seen the wreck of the Vagabond when he was there.’
