by W E Johns
“Okay,” said Eddie. “So we go to the creek. How do we get there?”
“There’s only one way, and that’s on our feet. It means walking, and from what I could see of the terrain, unless we strike a track of some sort that isn’t going to be easy, even in daylight. There can be no question of doing it after dark. We’d break our necks on these rocks. If we struck really lucky we might get the information we want from one of the locals who speaks a language we understand. Not that that would alter the basic situation.”
“How do you mean?” asked Eddie. “I don’t quite get it.”
“If the ship I saw is the Saphos we shall have to watch her constantly to make sure she doesn’t slip away without knowing; and the sooner we’re in a position to do that the better; because the most important question that arises now is, where does she go from here? Should she turn round and head back for the Western Mediterranean it’ll look as if the vessel alongside is the parent ship that supplies the dope. Where does she go, I wonder, when she leaves here? But her nationality should give us a clue to that.”
“Who’s going on this hike?” asked Eddie.
“There’s no need for us all to go. One, or two at most, should be enough. The ideal thing would be for someone to sit on the side of that mountain with a pair of binoculars, high enough to see both us, here, and the creek. A signal would then be enough to indicate the departure of the Saphos should she look like pulling out.”
“How about the plane?” queried Marcel. “Does she stay here?”
“Why not? She isn’t using petrol. She should be safe enough while the weather holds, although should a storm blow up it wouldn’t be funny, particularly if we were on the windward side of the island.”
Ginger stepped in. “I’ve been having a look at the chart,” he announced. “I wouldn’t swear to it, but as far as I can make out, picturing the shape of the island as I saw it from up topsides, I believe the name of this heap of rocks is Venesos.”
“Thanks,” acknowledged Biggles, a trifle cynically. “It’s something to know where we are.”
“If I’m right there should be a monastery about somewhere. The chart shows a cross, which according to the key in the corner means a religious building of some sort.”
“That’s not likely to help us much. The monks, or priests, or whatever they are, may get bored, stuck here on an island, but I can’t imagine them indulging in a dope frolic. Rustle some grub while I try to pick out the easiest way up that hill and check there’s nobody watching us.”
Biggles raised the binoculars to his eyes and went slowly over the shore line. They rested on one point for so long that Marcel asked, “What do you see?”
“I’m not sure, but I fancy this cove runs on into a creek... behind that big buttress of rock. I feel like having a look at it, because if I’m right we could tuck ourselves into it and so be out of sight of any small craft that might come along. If people from the village saw us they’d naturally talk about it when they got back, and that might bring someone along to investigate. It won’t take a minute. Keep your eyes skinned for a movement of any sort. Strewth! Isn’t it hot again. I could drink the sea dry.”
“And all the little fishes in it, as we say in France,” rejoined Marcel as Biggles returned to the cockpit.
The engines came to life and the Otter taxied cautiously towards the shoulder of rock to which Biggles had referred. Reaching it, it could at once be seen that his supposition had been correct. A hairpin bend brought into sight a narrow creek perhaps two hundred yards in length. And that was not all. All along one side there appeared work that was clearly artificial, and, judging from ancient trees, mostly olives, that overgrew it, this was of great age. As Biggles taxied right up there could be seen, hewn out of the living rock, a row of stalls, in the manner of giant stables.
The engines died. The aircraft came to rest, and Biggles joined the others on the hull. “This is better,” he said. “This should do us fine, no matter what the weather does.”
“What do you make of the masonry?” asked Eddie, pointing at the stalls, and some rough terracing that rose above them.
“I think I know the answer,” returned Biggles. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before, on the mainland of Greece. What we’re looking at was once a port, where, thousands of years ago, seamen parked their galleys. Or they may have built them here. No doubt there were once houses or workshops where those terraces are crumbling. There must also have been a track of sorts, leading inland, but that will have become too overgrown for us to find it.”
“Gives you a queer feeling, doesn’t it, to think that history we know nothing about may have been made here,” said Eddie, in an awed voice.
“It’ll be a queer feeling if we have to climb that hill,” retorted Biggles, practically. “By the time we’ve clambered round that flank we shall be stewing in our own juice.”
“You don’t think this place is still being used?”
Biggles shook his head. “By the look of it, it hasn’t been used for centuries. But let’s get cracking. The Saphos may cast off at any time, and if we lost her after all this we should look silly.” He glanced at his wrist-watch. “Let’s eat and get mobile. We haven’t too much time before the light will begin to go.”
CHAPTER X
BERTIE GOES ASHORE
BERTIE, squatting in his cockleshell craft, knew the look-out on the Saphos had seen him when the ship, approaching on a line not directly head on, turned slightly towards him. He stood up and waved. As she drew near faces could be seen above the rail regarding him with the curiosity natural in the circumstances.
The rest worked out exactly as he had anticipated. With way sufficient to bring her alongside the Saphos’ engine was stopped. A line was thrown. Bertie seized it and was hauled aboard. A bell rang below. The engine was restarted and the ship resumed its journey with Bertie standing on the deck, smiling sheepishly, surrounded by seven men who looked at him more with amusement than any other expression. One man he recognized immediately from the description Biggles had given him. Alfondez. He stood a little apart, smoking a cigarette. Another, from the sea-stained uniform he wore, was obviously the captain. The others looked like deck hands. None looked British.
“Thanks a lot,” said Bertie. “Jolly good of you to stop for me.” He screwed his eyeglass a little more tightly in his eye and walking to the rail pointed at the dinghy, now adrift astern. “What about my boat?” he inquired. “Can’t you save it?” Getting no reply he looked round and questioned: “Does anyone speak English?”
Knowing Alfondez spoke English he expected him to answer. But he did not. His expression remained unchanged. Instead, the response came from a little stout man with dark eyes, an olive skin and a huge black handlebar moustache. “I speeka leetle,” he said. “I aska da captain.” Having done this and received a reply in a language Bertie did not know he went on: “No. No wasta da time. No wanta boat. No use. What you doin’ here lika dat—huh?”
Bertie told the story he had ready. It was simple, and not far from the literal truth. He had, he said, been in an aeroplane which had come down on the sea.
To his relief this was accepted without question, as considering the circumstances it had every reason to be. Indeed, explanation was not really necessary, his position speaking for itself. At all events the subject was not pursued. Asked his name and nationality by the stout man, who had assumed the role of interpreter, he gave both. He was well aware that Alfondez spoke better English, and wondering why he had remained silent could only suppose he had a purpose in not revealing this. The stout man, whose name turned out to be Zander, volunteered the information that he had learnt to speak English in America. He was obviously proud of it. But this was no clue to his nationality, which as far as Bertie was concerned might have been anything. Not that it was of any importance.
It was clear that the rescue was regarded as a minor incident, for once curiosity had been satisfied the spectators drifted away and Bertie was left prett
y much to himself. He thought he had noticed a flicker of interest in the eyes of Alfondez when he had given his name with his title. This he had considered advisable since it was the description shown in his passport, which he had in his pocket for emergencies. It did not occur to him that the title could make any difference to the present affair.
There was a certain amount of softly spoken conversation between Alfondez and the captain although what it was about Bertie did not know except that he, obviously, was being discussed. He had a feeling that having rescued him they were now wondering what to do with him. But this again, in view of what he knew, was only to be expected.
What he was most anxious to learn was of course the destination of the ship, since this was the main purpose of the scheme. Presently, after the captain had returned to the bridge, he asked Zander point-blank where they were going, feeling that this, if he was what he pretended to be, would be a perfectly natural question.
The answer he got was: “You see, boy, pretty soona,” leaving him to ponder on what exactly was meant by pretty soon, since the ship was nowhere near a port of any size.
After that he was more or less left to himself, so all he could do was moon about gazing at the islands through which they were passing, none of which meant anything to him. He had no idea of their names. Only a local navigator, he thought, would be expected to know them. The sun, a fiery orange orb, dropped into the sea, and still the Saphos chugged on, with ever more islands appearing ahead. He noticed a radio aerial amidships but saw nothing remarkable in that.
Some time later, after darkness had fallen, he was invited to join the crew at an evening meal, which for such a ship turned out to be a good deal better than he had imagined, although the aroma of garlic was somewhat overpowering. However, he chatted inconsequentially with Zander who, having drunk some wine, was inclined to be garrulous presumably to show off his English.
“Where do you want me to sleep?” Bertie asked him.
“You donta wanta sleep boy. We soon there,” answered Zander mysteriously.
The meal finished Bertie returned to the deck, content and a little surprised that no restraint had so far been made on his movements. There, leaning on the rail, under a sky glittering with stars, he watched the pinpoints of light, some near and some distant, on the islands through which the ship was still steering an erratic course. It was evident that the man at the wheel knew well these waters, which to a stranger could be dangerous.
He was still on deck when who should join him but Alfondez, to ask questions the meaning of which at first appeared to have no particular purpose or importance. He asked Bertie, casually, what he did for a living, or if, being a lord, he did anything at all. Bertie answered truthfully that with a private income there was no need for him to work, although occasionally he took a job to prevent himself from dying of boredom. For preference, he said, he liked something with prospects of excitement. That was why he had taken up flying.
“We noticed a plane about once or twice,” said Alfondez. “Was that yours?”
Bertie said it could have been, although it might have been another plane looking for him, after he had come down on the sea.
Alfondez’s next question conveyed a hint of its purpose. “Do you like making easy money?”
“Who doesn’t?” replied Bertie, brightly.
“And you like jobs with plenty of excitement?”
“That’s me, all over,” declared Bertie, warmly. “Do you know of any?”
Alfondez did not answer. He finished the Turkish cigarette he was smoking, tossed the end into the sea and went below. He was soon back. “You come below now,” he said.
“No thanks,” declined Bertie. “I like it better up here.”
Alfondez put a hand on his shoulder. “Below,” he said, in a different tone of voice.
“You mean—I’ve got to go below?”
“Please.”
“But why?”
“No questions. Come.”
“All right, if that’s how you want it,” agreed Bertie, wondering what was coming.
Alfondez took him down and showed him into a cabin which, from some empty packing cases, was evidently used as a storeroom. There was no porthole. “Stay here,” he said, and went out, closing the door behind him thus cutting off the light of the corridor outside.
Finding himself in darkness Bertie groped his way to a packing case and used it as a seat. Presently he sniffed as a faint smell touched the chords of his memory. He knew what it was. It was one of those aromas which, as Biggles had said, is never forgotten. Crude opium.
He was thinking about this and all that it implied when the note of the engine changed. Following a distant bell it presently faded to silence. Movement stopped and vague noises indicated that the ship had arrived somewhere. Where? What was going on? He groped his way to the door, only, to his chagrin, to find it locked. He returned to his seat. Some time passed. What with the darkness and the heat it seemed a long time before he heard footsteps approaching. A key turned in the lock. The door opened, letting in light, and a man entered.
For a moment Bertie thought it was Alfondez who had returned. Then he saw that although the newcomer was very much like him he had been mistaken. There was a resemblance, however, and he decided that the two men were probably of the same nationality. He had not previously seen this one on the ship. He thought he had only just come on board. He was not dressed for a sea voyage, anyway, being in an ordinary well-cut suit, without a waistcoat, which revealed a flowing tie and trousers belted in the American fashion. When he spoke in fairly fluent English but with a pronounced accent Bertie decided he too was a foreigner who had learnt his English in America.
Looking at Bertie he said, in a flat voice, “You have the bad luck.”
With a wan smile Bertie agreed.
“What you do now?”
“Go home. What else?”
“To London?”
“Yes.”
“You have money?”
“Enough to get me home, I hope.”
“I am told you are an English lord.”
Bertie admitted that he had such a title.
“You have passport—huh?”
“Of course. How could I travel abroad without one?”
“Show me.”
“If it’s of any interest to you.” Bertie took the document from his breast pocket and handed it over, glad that with just a situation in mind he had had the foresight to use his real name.
The man’s eyes ran quickly down the page giving particulars of the holder. “I see you are described as independent.”
“I am in that happy position,” agreed Bertie, as the passport was handed back to him. “But look here,” he went on. “Why all these questions? How about me asking some? Where are we, and why was I locked in this beastly hole? Do you think I’d run off without thanking you for picking me up? Dash it all, I’m not that sort of a cad.”
The man looked Bertie in the eyes. “Our interest in you arose from a remark you made to a friend of mine. You said you sometimes did work that offered excitement. Is that correct?”
“Within reasonable limits. Why do you ask? Do you happen to know of such a job?”
“Possibly. You see, we are merchants, and it struck us that an English lord might have access to markets not open to ordinary people.”
“Are you talking about England?”
“Yes. And if you like to travel perhaps other countries.”
“Where does the excitement come in? I wouldn’t go around trying to sell washing machines and what have you. No jolly fear. No fun in that. Not my line at all.” Bertie polished his monocle vigorously.
“It happens that we deal mostly in oriental confectionery.”
“Ah. Turkish delight, and so on.”
“All you would have to do if you entered our employment would be to arrange for the import of our products as and where directed,” explained the man, blandly.
“Really? Well, that doesn’t sound ve
ry difficult,” said Bertie, putting on his most inane smile.
The man got up. “That’s enough for now. Think over what I’ve said while I speak to our general manager. I can tell you this. The money is good. Meanwhile, stay here.”
“Do you mean I can’t go ashore?” demanded Bertie, indignantly.
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Frankly, you might see too much.”
“You talk as if you were afraid of something!”
“You might. In these days of competition we strive to keep our special markets secret. That is only a reasonable business precaution,” was the glib explanation. “I shall not keep you long,” promised the man as he went out, leaving Bertie locked in the cabin as before.
An hour later he returned, much to Bertie’s relief, for while he was satisfied with the way things were going he was finding the periods of inaction rather tiresome. His chief sensation was one of astonishment that with so little known about him he had been accepted at his face value and offered a job in the dope ring. At least, that was what it was beginning to look like. The questions he had been asked could mean nothing else. He suspected that his title had been responsible, although just how this was to be utilized was not yet clear. He had announced his title not from vanity but as a simple matter of fact, and the result was a situation he had not even considered.
