by W E Johns
Bertie stepped into the conversation. “Listen here, old boy. I’ve got an idea, an absolute corker. At least, I think so.”
“Go ahead and spill it,” invited Biggles, suspiciously. “I know what some of your brainwaves are like.”
“There you are, you see,” came back Bertie in a pained voice. “Cramping my style even before you know what it is.”
“Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“Looking down at the ship on that gorgeous calm sea it struck me that it might save us a lot of aviating if one of us was aboard her.”
“Who, for instance?”
“Me, naturally, as the inspiration was mine. You see, laddie, if I was on the bally ship, it wouldn’t matter if you lost her. I should know where we were, and all that sort of thing. Get all the gen at close range, and what have you.”
Biggles’ expression did not change. “That’s a great scheme,” he acknowledged, seriously. “But there’s one snag that sticks out like a sore thumb. How are you going to get on board?”
“Perfectly simple, old boy. I’ve got it all worked out. It’s a slice of cake. When we get ahead of the Saphos, dead on her course, all you have to do is go down and push me overboard.”
Eddie’s voice, pitched high, nearly broke with incredulity. “Are you kiddin’?”
Bertie looked pained.
Biggles remained serious. He raised a hand. “Let him finish. So we push you overboard. Then what?”
“I can swim, can’t I? When the ship comes along she spots me, picks me up, well, there I am—if you see what I mean.”
“And if she doesn’t pick you up, there you are, up the creek without a paddle.”
“Not at all,” protested Bertie. “In that case all you have to do is come back and collect me. You see, I’ve got it all taped, cut and dried and wrapped up, as you might say.”
Biggles smiled at the expression on Eddie’s face. “He gets the quaintest notions,” he said, softly. He looked back at Bertie. “Tell me this. What excuse would you give your rescuers for taking a dip a hundred miles or more from the nearest land?”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so difficult, old boy. I’d tell the truth. There’s nothing like the truth to save complications. I’d say I fell out of a plane. That would account for me being in my togs.”
Biggles shook his head. “No,” he decided.
“Why not?”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“I could wear a life jacket, just in case the scheme came unstuck. I’m assuming, of course, that the bally sea remains calm.”
“You know as well as I do that in half an hour, from flat calm, this particular stretch of water can be throwing itself about in convulsions. It’s notorious for it. It only needs a change of wind.”
“There isn’t any wind.”
“There may be.”
“I’ll tell you something else,” persisted Bertie. “If the blighters on that ship see you waffling up and down they’ll guess why. Don’t you see, I’d provide an excuse for you to be about. They’d think you were looking for me. In fact, I’d tell them so. I’d say that’s the plane I fell out of. Naturally, you would be looking for me if I fell out. At least, I hope so. At a pinch you might land near the ship to ask if they’d seen a corpse floating about in the drink. They would probably hand me over, but by that time I should know who was aboard and perhaps where the Saphos was making for.”
Again Biggles shook his head. “It’s too risky.”
“How about sharks?” put in Eddie.
“I’m not worried about sharks,” returned Biggles. “The big fellers mostly hang about off Alexandria, feeding on the offal that comes from the abattoirs. It’s this leaving a man swimming so far from land. The look-out on the Saphos may not see him. If he did the ship might not stop to pick him up.”
“In which case you do,” cried Bertie.
“That’s assuming we could find you. One little head in a big sea isn’t easy to spot.”
“I could put a smoke rocket in my pocket and let it off when—”
“No,” said Biggles.
“Is it that you just don’t like me swimming?”
“Yes.”
“Then leave me adrift in the dinghy. There’d be no danger in that.”
“If the people on that ship, supposing it to be what I take it to be, got one whiff of suspicion that you were a police officer they’d tie a lump of iron on your legs and toss you overboard.”
Bertie raised his hands and looked round the company. “I ask you. Do I look like a sleuth?”
Eddie grinned. “Not exactly.”
“There you are,” said Bertie.
Biggles resumed. “Suppose you got on the ship. How do we get you back on the aircraft? Tell me that.”
“Now hold you hard a minute, old boy,” protested Bertie. “You’re always telling people not to take their fences till they come to ‘em. I’d find a way of getting back to you. Failing that I’d jolly soon make my way home. I’ve been around, don’t forget.”
Biggles drew a deep breath. “I’ve made it clear that I’m not infatuated with the scheme, but I’m prepared to admit that if it came off it would be a wizard. I still don’t like the risks involved. I’ll think about it and give you a definite decision in the morning when we see what the weather’s like, and possibly have a better idea of where the Saphos is making for. Let’s leave it like that. Now we’ll see about having some supper. After that I shall leave it to Marcel to fix things ashore. He knows the drill with his own people.”
That was how matters were left. The whole party had a good meal at a nearby restaurant, after which Marcel went off to see the authorities about refuelling. Biggles returned to the Otter to spend the night in the cabin, leaving the others to make their own arrangements for hotel bedrooms.
CHAPTER VIII
BERTIE GETS HIS WAY
DAWN was creeping slowly into a world left colourless by the shadows of night when those who had slept ashore returned to the Otter. From overhead a grey sky gazed down upon a grey earth, and a grey, silent sea, as flat as a sheet of glass except where converging tracks of small craft, returning home after night fishing, had left their marks.
As Biggles made ready to move off came the daily grand parade of colour. First, the soft grey of the sky gave way to a band of palest green which, starting at the horizon, swept upward to the zenith. It was followed by a wave of primrose, which on its way turned to streaming gold, and then from gold to orange, and so to turquoise blue. Far and wide the colours flowed over the mountains of the rocky island and a sea that lay as tranquil as a great lake.
“All right,” said Biggles. “If everyone’s ready we’ll get topsides.”
Bertie was jubilant about the weather. “What about my little scheme, old boy?” he inquired.
“We’ll talk about that later,” answered Biggles. “The first thing is to find the Saphos and check her course. If she went through the Strait, as I imagine she did, there’ll be a lot of open water in front of her.”
“What if she stopped somewhere in Sardinia?” queried Marcel.
“We’ll come back and find her there.”
Nothing more was said. Biggles taxied out, took off, and climbing steadily over the southern tip of the island stood out across the Tyrrhenian Sea under a sky now pure ultramarine unmarked by even a suspicion of a cloud.
“Until we’re proved otherwise I shall assume the Saphos is heading for somewhere at the eastern end of the Mediterranean,” he told Marcel, who was still sitting beside him. “My guess is Egypt, or Syria, or somewhere between.”
It was rather more than an hour before they overhauled the ship, keeping well clear of her, of course. It was really quite easy. All that was necessary was to follow up her wake which, as is usual with all steamers on a calm sea, consisted of a broad oil stain with occasional garbage jettisoned from the galley. As plain to see as a white chalk mark on a blackboard, with the sea so glassy, it ran as straight as an arrow to the south-e
astern horizon. Actually, they had done this twice before, to find themselves on a false trail, the quarry in both cases, when overtaken, turning out to be an ocean tramp.
As soon as it became possible to identify the Saphos Biggles swung away on a different course which he held until the ship was hull down over the horizon. He then put the Otter down on the open sea and switched off the engines.
“What’s the idea?” asked Ginger, from behind.
“There’s no point in burning petrol unnecessarily,” returned Biggles. “Now we have her track to follow we can sit here all day, always providing the weather stays as it is.”
“It will be hot presently,” predicted Marcel, looking out across the empty sea. “Without a breeze we shall sizzle like chickens on a spit.”
“We shall just have to bear it,” said Biggles, philosophically. “Apart from using petrol I don’t want the Saphos to see us too often.”
“Here, I say chaps, what about my little scheme?” demanded Bertie again.
“It’s still too early to talk about that,” Biggles told him. “Did you get a line on her possible objective, assuming she’s running straight to it, as she should be?”
“If she stays as she goes she’ll round the toe of Italy. It looks as if she might be going through the Straits of Messina.”
“What do you make the distance?”
“Getting on for three hundred miles from where she is now.”
“Mon Dieu! That means we shall be in this frying pan for days,” exclaimed Marcel, in a startled voice.
Biggles shrugged. “That may not be the end of it. This may only be the beginning. But we knew that when we started. The only alternative to carrying on is to pack up and go home. That would mean throwing away a clue, the only one we’re ever likely to have, that could lead us direct to the headquarters of the gang, or the place from which they collect their supplies. However, I’ll leave it to you. What do we do? Does anybody want to go home?”
Nobody spoke.
“Okay. That settles that,” went on Biggles. “We carry on. When the Saphos has made an estimated hundred miles or so I shall follow on until I see her smoke and then sit down again. Personally, with the weather in our favour I think we’re doing fine.”
Eddie spoke. “I’ve played some queer games in my time, but this sort of Indians and cowboys set-up on the open sea is a new one to me.”
“It’s a new one to me, if it comes to that,” replied Biggles. “I’m no prophet, but if you remember I said at the start we might be in for a long haul. In fact, that was almost certain. If anyone gets bored he can try his hand fishing. It’s a good way of passing the time. There are some hand lines and hooks in the emergency locker.”
Eddie’s eyebrows arched. “Fishing! Say, what do we want with fish?”
Biggles smiled. “We could eat ‘em, for a change of diet. We’ve canned food on board; we always have; but with five mouths to fill we’re likely to be on short rations before we come to the end of this jaunt.”
There was a move towards the emergency locker.
Marcel had been right about the heat. As the sun climbed towards its zenith the rays it flung down became almost unbearable. The cabin became a hothouse, and they took turns swimming round the aircraft. Ginger came out of the water in a hurry when a whale floated up from the deep near them, and having inspected the Otter went lazily on its way after astonishing everyone by its noisy breathing.
“Good job you didn’t hook that one,” laughed Biggles to Eddie, who had been fishing, without success.
The only other diversion occurred when a small, brightly coloured bird landed on the machine, apparently for a rest, for it soon flew on again. One or two schools of dolphins were seen, and once a formation of jets went over at a tremendous height, heading south, leaving the usual vapour trails. The windless calm persisted. Always overhead the same blue sky, a canopy of implacable serenity. The sun toiled wearily across the heavens. All around the aircraft the lonely sea shimmered like a mirror.
“Oh for a breeze,” sighed Eddie.
“We can’t have it both ways,” Biggles pointed out. “A breeze would wipe out the trail the Saphos is so kindly leaving for us.”
At noon a frugal meal was made from corned beef, biscuits and jam.
“Now I think we might move on a bit,” decided Biggles, when it was finished. “We mustn’t let her get too far away.”
The engines were started. Biggles took off, and by following the track left by the Saphos soon brought her into sight. When she appeared on the horizon he again switched off and put the aircraft on the water.
“This is a great game played slow,” observed Eddie.
“It’s the only way it can be played,” returned Biggles.
The same monotonous procedure was followed until sundown, by which time it had become evident that the Saphos was making for the Straits of Messina, the waterway between the foot of Italy and the island of Sicily. A rather pleasant interlude was provided by a rust-streaked tramp, flying the Italian flag. Seeing the aircraft on the water she came over to ask if help was needed.
Biggles thanked the mariners for their courteous enquiry and said they were all right. They were, he said, merely having a rest.
The tramp went on its way, leaving a trail of ripples that set the Otter rocking. Its wake could still be seen after the ship had faded into the gathering gloom, when phosphorescence painted each little wavelet with gleaming silver.
“Now what?” asked Marcel. “Do we stay here all night?”
“Unless anyone has a better suggestion,” answered Biggles. “The Saphos is obviously on a set course. We know what it is. With the nearest land a long way in front of her it’s safe to assume she’ll be on the same course in the morning. The weather is everything we could wish for, and speaking personally, I’m as happy to be doing this as anything else. I loathe these dope merchants as much as the poison they sell.” He glanced at Eddie. “And now there may be a political angle to what they’re doing I hate them more than ever. What’s the use of decent people trying to keep peace in the world while these dope rats, actuated by mercenary motives, go about stirring up trouble?”
“I guess you’re right, at that,” murmured Eddie.
“Make some coffee, Ginger, and we’ll arrange watches for the night,” ordered Biggles.
With a last meal taken from the emergency store locker, and two-hour watches decided by the usual method of drawing numbers, the aircraft’s company settled down to sleep as comfortably as they might in the cramped quarters available. Ginger, who had been lucky enough to draw first watch, sat on the bows and watched the sea turn black and silver under a pale moon. There was not a vessel of any sort in sight.
The night passed without incident and dawn again found those aboard the Otter making ready for the next leg of their strange journey. The weather remained unchanged and looked as if it might go on for some time, as is usually the case in high summer in that part of the Mediterranean. The task of shadowing the Saphos was resumed. The ship was overtaken in less than two hours, still on the same course as Biggles had predicted, so that it was now fairly certain that, short of making a landfall at some Sicilian port, she was heading for the Straits of Messina.
The day turned out to be a repetition of the previous one, with the Otter keeping in touch with the Saphos from a safe distance. With the sea like a mill-pond, showing the track plainly, this presented no difficulty. By noon the heat was blistering, and as so often happens when a number of people are cooped up in a confined space, this tedious method of progress began to tell on everyone’s nerves. Two ships were seen in the distance. Ginger caught a flying fish. Swimming was prevented for a time by the arrival of a shoal of slowly drifting multicoloured jellyfish the size of open umbrellas. Again at nightfall the Otter rested on the broad surface of an ocean that seemed to lack strength to raise even a ripple.
The next evening the Saphos passed through the Straits of Messina to the Ionian Sea without stopping, and hav
ing done so resumed a course that remained practically unchanged. When this had been checked, and it was seen on the chart how much open sea she had in front of her, Biggles turned south for Malta where, on the production of his papers, he was allowed to refuel at an R.A.F. station. The Otter was not short of petrol or oil, but as the diversion did not take the machine too far from its course Biggles considered it worth while. Anyhow, as he said, it made a change from sitting still doing nothing.
“Goodness only knows where we’re going to finish up, and on long-distance runs of this sort it’s always good policy to get what you need when you can,” he had advised. “We’ll lay in some fresh food at the same time.”
“You’re not afraid of losing the Saphos?” queried Marcel.
“No. Not while the sea remains like this. I’m afraid she’s making for somewhere in the Middle East. If so, that’s where our real troubles are likely to begin. But we’ll deal with those when they arise. Having come so far we might as well see the job through.”
Back on the track of the ship after stretching their legs at Malta they had no difficulty in picking up their quarry. Bertie plotted her course, which would, he announced, take her round the southern tip of Greece.
“That rules out Egypt,” said Biggles, looking puzzled. “I don’t get it. If she was heading for Salonika, or, say, the Black Sea, one would have expected her to cut through the Corinth Canal.”
“Did you think we would have to come as far as this?”
“There was an indication of it. According to what Eddie learned at Marseilles her bill of lading showed a cargo of dried fruit, much of which comes from this part of the world. The word currant is merely a mutilation of the word Corinth.”
Three days later, mostly spent on the water to conserve petrol, Biggles was even more surprised when the Saphos, having rounded southern Greece, turned almost due north. “I don’t like this,” he remarked gloomily. “If she’s going to weave a passage through that maze of islands in the Aegean we look like losing her—unless we stay close enough to cause the people on board to wonder what we’re doing. What I’m really afraid of is she might be making for one of the Iron Curtain ports of the Black Sea. In that case, as we couldn’t follow her there without being arrested, or maybe shot down, we shall have had all this sweat for nothing. It wouldn’t help us much to know her destination if it was beyond our reach.”
