Biggles and the Lost Sovereigns

by W E Johns

  With his eyes on the tangle of shrubs on either side, not looking where he was putting his feet, he nearly stepped into the middle of a coiled cobra. The creature merely raised its head a trifle, hissing like a soda-water siphon as it extended its hood. It was this that drew his attention to it. Unable to stop he jumped over it. This was the last straw and he finished at a run.

  He reached the beach with a gasp of relief and hastened to join the others, who were still busy setting up camp.

  Biggles, happening to glance at him, stopped what he was doing. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he inquired.

  ‘What gives you the idea that anything’s the matter?’

  ‘Your face is the colour of a lump of dough.’

  ‘So would yours be had you been in my position a few minutes ago. Here, take this gun off me. Careful, it’s still loaded.’ Ginger threw down the water-bottles. ‘It may interest you to know we’ve a tiger for company.’

  ‘Did you see it?’

  ‘No.’

  Then how can you be sure?’

  ‘I saw his pug mark at a water-hole.’

  Biggles frowned. ‘What a nuisance. Still, it’s unlikely that he’ll be a man-eater. He won’t interfere with us if we don’t get in his way. Why be so scared?’

  ‘It’s all very well for you to talk like that standing here,’ retorted Ginger. ‘At one time the beast must have been within yards of me. I found a water-hole and filled the bottles. There wasn’t a mark there then. I went on a few yards. I wasn’t away more than five minutes. When I came back there was a whacking great footprint in the mud. If you think that’s funny take a stroll up the track and give yourself a good laugh.’

  ‘Okay-okay. You didn’t actually see him?’

  ‘No. And I couldn’t hear a sound. But I’m sure the devil was watching me. I could feel it in my bones. If you decide to have a look I can tell you that just for full measure there’s a cobra taking a nap in the middle of the path.’

  Chintoo had come close with the others to listen. Biggles turned to him. ‘Could there be a tiger here?’

  ‘Yes, Tuan. He like swim. Come to island. No like, no stay. When come to one he like, plenty pig, he stay.’

  Bertie chipped in. ‘I say, look here, old boy. I’m nothing for sharing the place with a bally tiger. Monkeys, yes. Jolly little fellers. But tigers, oh no. I like my tigers behind bars. What’s wrong with waffling along to another island? There are umpteen to choose from—if you see what I mean.’

  ‘If we did that we’d miss Mac when he comes with the stores,’ Biggles pointed out. ‘If we weren’t here he’d make the dump as arranged, so we’d still have to come back. I don’t feel like changing our plan on account of a tiger. There might be one anywhere, if it comes to that. We’ll stay until we see how this one behaves. We shall have to search the coast anyway, for the Vagabond. So far all we’ve done is skip round the beaches. Let’s carry on.’

  ‘Hold hard a minute,’ cried Ginger. ‘I’ve just remembered something. I was right about that old Salone having been here. He left that pile of shells.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Look what I found under ’em!’ Ginger took the sovereign from his pocket and spun it through the air.

  Biggles caught it. ‘Well, I’ll go hopping—’

  ‘Take a look at the date.’

  Biggles did so. ‘1938,’ he breathed.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind betting this is where the old devil sat and strung the coins together,’ continued Ginger. ‘When you come to think about it, with perhaps only an old nail and a lump of rock to work with, that would take some time. He may not have done all the coins at one go; but he certainly had some loose ones when he was here because he dropped one. I think it follows that the place where he found them can’t be far from here.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Biggles. ‘This needs thinking about. When I was talking to Mac he said the Salones mostly stay on the beaches. They have to, because that’s where they get their food. They live almost entirely on the shell-fish they find on the rocks. We’ve seen proof of that. They stay in one place only for as long as the supply of crabs and limpets holds out; then they move on. That’s the trouble. They’re always on the move. They wander from island to island in their home-made boats—kabangs. This piece of gold is interesting, I must admit, but we still don’t know where it came from.’

  ‘It looks to me as if the old man was still making his necklace when he was here, which suggests he found the coins not far away,’ argued Ginger.

  ‘Mac came on the canoe near Hog Island,’ reminded Bertie. That’s a long way from here.’

  Biggles answered. ‘Fifty miles. That isn’t far. Of course, we don’t know how long the old man had been dead, but in these sharp currents the canoe could have drifted that distance in two or three days.’

  ‘Don’t forget Mac searched the nearest islands,’ Ginger pointed out.

  ‘I wouldn’t rely too much on that,’ came back Biggles. ‘It couldn’t have been much of a search. The Alora is a fair size. He wouldn’t dare risk his ship by taking her in very close unless he knew he had plenty of water under him. From a distance it wouldn’t be easy to spot the wreck of the Vagabond. He told me that when he picks up cargo from one of the larger islands, mostly timber or mangrove bark, he has to manhandle it aboard in a small boat, either one of his own, or, if there are Salones there, in one of their kabangs. I imagine that’s how he’ll have to land our stores here.’

  ‘Well, there it is,’ concluded Ginger. ‘You work it out. I’ve given you something to start on. All I ask is, don’t expect me to go alone to fetch a bucket of water from that pool. Now I could do with a mug of tea and a bite of something to eat. Come on, Chintoo. Get cracking.’

  ‘Yes, Tuan. All ready.’

  CHAPTER 7

  MORE PROBLEMS

  The night having passed without incident, apart from the usual trouble with fire ants, dawn found the party eating breakfast outside the tent. There had been hopes that the Alora would be in sight heading for the island, but in this they were disappointed. There was not a vessel, large or small, in view.

  ‘Ive been trying to work out something from the sovereign you found, Ginger,’ said Biggles, as he spread canned butter and marmalade on another biscuit. ‘I feel it should help us, but exactly how isn’t easy to work out. The only conclusion I’ve arrived at is this. What we’ve got to look for is not where a big party of Salones has stayed, but a little heap of shells on a beach where the old man sat alone. If we’re right in thinking—and I don’t see how it can be otherwise—that it was near such a place that he found the wreckage of the Vagabond, it should narrow our search considerably. Put it like this. All we need do is look over as many beaches as we can find. Where there are no shells we needn’t waste any time; but if we find a small heap of empty shells, such as one man alone would make, then we go over the place thoroughly. In that way we should cover the ground a lot faster, although I must admit it’s taking a chance of missing what we’re looking for. But we can’t stay here indefinitely.’

  ‘Don’t forget the old boy had a canoe,’ reminded Bertie. ‘He had to have one to move from island to island. Actually, as we know, he ended his life in it.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘I was thinking; when he came ashore he must have pulled his boat up high and dry. He could hardly do that without leaving a mark in the sand. The tide would wash it out low down, of course, but to make sure his boat was safe, surely he’d pull it up beyond the high-water mark. Signs of that would remain for some time. It would be something else to look for.’

  ‘That’s sound reasoning,’ conceded Biggles. ‘We’ll look for such marks, but I’m not sure you’re right. He might anchor his boat to a stone, leaving it afloat.’

  ‘Is there any reason why he should?’

  ‘Possibly. I’m thinking of the weight of these Salone kabangs. It might be beyond the strength of one man, an old man at that, to haul one up a sloping sa
ndy beach. They must be heavy. Mac told me they consist simply of a hollowed-out tree trunk with a few inches of extra freeboard tacked along the sides to prevent them from swamping in a seaway. However, it’s worth remembering.’

  Bertie sighed. ‘It’s uncanny how my brain waves always seem to run up against a snag,’ he said sadly.

  Ginger spoke in a most unusual voice. ‘Don’t look round, anybody. Just keep talking. We’re being watched.’

  Biggles stared. ‘Watched! By whom?’

  ‘I saw a face looking at us from the jungle. I think it was a Chinaman. I happened to be watching the bank for my tiger. It’s gone now, but I’ll keep my eyes on the spot in case he has another dekko at us. Don’t move.’

  ‘This is getting ridiculous,’ declared Biggles. ‘First a tiger. Now a Chinaman. Are you sure you aren’t beginning to see things that aren’t there?’

  ‘I’ve seen enough faces in my time to be able to recognize one when I see it,’ answered Ginger, with unsmiling sarcasm. ‘I tell you I saw a face. I saw a fern frond move. It was the only one. That’s why, thinking of a tiger, it caught my eye. Then, against the shadow behind, a face appeared. It watched us for a few seconds and then disappeared. If you still don’t believe me pass me the gun and I’ll plaster the spot with a load of slugs. You’ll see what happens.’

  ‘We’re not starting anything like that,’ replied Biggles shortly. ‘Okay. So you saw a face. Tell me if you see it again.’

  The meal continued, but with less animation. Ginger, who sat facing the fringe of the jungle, watched it, but by the time they had finished the face had not reappeared. He admitted frankly that he was beginning to wonder if he had really seen one, or had been tricked by a play of light and shade in the early morning sun.

  ‘Well, we can’t sit here all day,’ said Biggles, getting up purposefully. ‘If some joker is playing I’ll take a hand. Where exactly did you think you saw the face, Ginger?’

  ‘About five feet up, by that tree fern next to the bush with the red flowers.’

  Biggles strode to the spot, followed in a less determined manner by the others. He parted the fronds in several places to peer into the dim undergrowth.

  ‘Can’t see anyone,’ he said, as the others caught up with him. ‘One wouldn’t expect to; the stuff’s so thick that one might overlook an elephant, and the ground’s in too much of a mess to show tracks. Let’s forget it and get on with the job.’

  They returned to the tent, where Chintoo informed them he would need a bucket of water for cooking, chiefly for boiling the rice.

  Said Biggles: ‘We can’t very well tell him to go and fetch it himself, knowing there may be a tiger about. I’ll go myself. I’ll take the rifle—just in case.’

  ‘I’ll go with you to show you the well,’ offered Ginger. ‘I know where it is.’

  ‘Jack and Jill went up the hill...’ chanted Bertie. ‘This fetching water every day with tigers on the prowl is going to be great fun. I’ll bring up the rear with the gun. That, Ginger dear boy, will leave your hands free to carry a brace of buckets.’

  Chintoo, saying nothing, watched the proceedings with an expression that clearly meant he saw no humour in the situation.

  Biggles loaded the rifle. Ginger picked up two canvas buckets. Bertie slipped cartridges into the double-barrelled twelve-bore, and in that order they set off.

  Before they had taken a dozen paces they were brought to an abrupt halt when, from somewhere on the jungle-clad slope above them, and no great distance away, there came a shrill scream.

  ‘What the devil!’ exclaimed Biggles, staring.

  ‘Monkey,’ said Bertie. ‘Silly little ass fell off his perch.’

  ‘That was no monkey. That was a man’s voice.’

  ‘Probably the chap I saw,’ guessed Ginger.

  ‘What has he got to holler about?’

  ‘Met my tiger, maybe.’

  ‘Quit fooling,’ snapped Biggles. That sounded to me like a cry for help. We’d better have a look. He should be on the path. No one but a lunatic would try to force his way through the undergrowth. Don’t make a noise.’

  They set off up the path at a brisk pace, Biggles leading, rifle held ready for instant use. The humid atmosphere was stifling and sweat poured down their faces, but Biggles did not stop until they reached the pool. Then, after a quick glance around, he said in a tense voice: ‘Sorry, Ginger. You were right about a tiger. There’s another pug mark; a new one, close to the old one. It could only have been made by a big fellow. Still, not to worry. With plenty of monkeys and wild pig available, he can’t be hungry, so he’s not likely to interfere with us.’

  ‘I like the way you talk about tigers as if they were house cats,’ protested Bertie. ‘They give me the willies.’

  Ginger filled the buckets. ‘Now what?’ he inquired, somewhat anxiously.

  Biggles was looking up the continuation of the narrow track. ‘The fellow who yelled might be up there,’ he murmured pensively. ‘I’ll go on for a bit and have a look. There’s no need for you to come, Ginger. You take the water home.’

  ‘That’s a lovely idea,’ sneered Ginger. ‘What if I meet the tiger? What do I do—offer him a drink of water?’

  ‘Bertie can go with you to keep you company. I shan’t need him. I shan’t be far behind you, anyway. I shall only go as far as the path remains open. Enough leeches will find us on the path, no doubt, without gathering all the bloodsuckers sitting in the jungle. I’ll try to get a view of the next beach to see if any Salones came in during the night. You push off.’

  ‘Okay.’ Ginger picked up the buckets, which he had stood on the ground while this conversation had been going on. ‘You can go first, Bertie, since you have the musket.’

  ‘Suits me, old boy.’ Bertie set off down the track followed closely by Ginger.

  The return trip was made without trouble, and they were almost in sight of the beach when from the direction of the camp there came a cry which sounded as if it had been cut off short.

  ‘That was Chin-Chin,’ said Bertie tersely. ‘Something must be wrong.’ And with that he broke into a run.

  Ginger followed as quickly as he could without spilling too much water. He soon lost sight of Bertie, but as he reached the beach he heard him shout.

  He burst out into the open just in time to see a man thrusting a way into the jungle. A split second later he saw Bertie fire at the spot, still marked by moving branches. Bertie did not follow up his shot but dashed back to the tent, or the spot where it had stood. It was no longer standing. The guy ropes had been cut and the canvas dragged across the cooking fire. Chintoo lay stretched out in the sand near by.

  The next few minutes were something like pandemonium. Bertie dropped his gun and seizing one side of the tent dragged it off the fire, Ginger of course helping him. It had not yet been badly burned except where it had actually been in contact with the fire. Bertie stamped out the flames, Ginger splashing water from his buckets on places where it still smouldered. They did not desist until they were sure the nylon fabric was beyond further damage.

  ‘We were just in time,’ panted Bertie, speaking for the first time.

  ‘Who did it?’

  ‘A Chinese type. He was making for the machine when I arrived. He had a parang in his hand. Another minute and he would have been hacking the machine. When he saw me coming he bolted. Spotted I carried a gun, no doubt.’

  ‘Then I was right. I did see a face.’

  ‘Absolutely. Let’s see what’s happened to Chin-Chin.’

  They hurried to the Malay and examined him; but the only wound they could find was on his head, where the hair was matted with blood. They washed it clean and splashed water on his face. Ginger ran to the aircraft and came back with the brandy flask and a roll of bandage from the medical box. A little of the spirit was dabbed on the wound as an antiseptic, and while Bertie rolled on the bandage Ginger got a few drops of brandy down the injured man’s throat.

  ‘The devil who did thi
s must have watched us go, then crept up behind Chin-Chin and coshed him,’ grated Bertie. ‘Chin-Chin must have seen him a moment too late. He must have cried out the very moment he was struck.’

  ‘The sooner Biggles gets back and sees what’s happened the better,’ said Ginger, as he helped to get the stricken man into a more comfortable position.

  The Malay opened his eyes and at once tried to get up, but Bertie gently forced him back. ‘Take it easy,’ he said soothingly. ‘No hurry.’

  Chintoo, looking dazed, said; ‘What was it?’

  ‘Somebody hit you on the head. Did you see him?’

  Chintoo thought hard. ‘Not see face, Tuan.’

  ‘Never mind. You lie still for a bit. You’ll soon be all right.’

  Ginger and Bertie both took a swig of water and were starting to straighten things out when Biggles marched up. He looked amazed, and not without cause. ‘What the devil’s all this? How did it happen? I heard a shot and hurried back.’

  Bertie answered. ‘While we were away some thug coshed Chin-Chin, cut down the tent and threw it on the fire. I’m afraid there’s a hole in it, but we were just in time to save the rest. The machine would have been the next to go.’

  ‘Who was it? Did you see him?’

  ‘Only just. He looked Chinese and was dressed like one. He made off when he saw me coming. I let drive at the bushes where he disappeared, but at that range I could only have peppered his hide.’

  ‘How’s Chintoo?’

  ‘Not too bad. He’s conscious. We’ve done all we can for him. I told him to lie still for a while. He should soon be on his feet. Where the deuce could that murdering rat have come from?’

  ‘There’s a Chinese junk lying off the next beach,’ answered Biggles briefly. ‘A dinghy had been pulled up on the sand. Obviously at least one man had come shore. That’s the answer.’

  It was the turn of the others to stare.

  ‘It must have been hanging about here for some days, probably tucked in behind one of the near-by islands, which would account for our not seeing it. The people on it must have landed here, too, at some time, before we arrived. They know their way about.’