by W E Johns
Time dragged on interminably. Ginger, bored and thoroughly wretched, could not remember a day that seemed so long. And as it crawled to a close, and still the others did not appear, his anxiety mounted to acute alarm. It was obvious that something unforeseen had happened, but what to do about it he did not know. He hated the thought of just sitting there doing nothing; yet he felt he should stay at his post.
Eight o’clock came. He took another long look from the ridge. It would, he knew, be the last, for already the scene was dim with twilight. The castle was a hazy silhouette. He returned to his seat. He could find only one redeeming feature in the situation. It was not raining, although the sky still looked as if it might, at any moment.
He began to think of his own predicament. The idea of sitting in the open all night, possibly in the rain, after his long day, appalled him. Where could he go? He had left it too late to find shelter. He knew there were more houses on the island because Rod had said so, but where they were he did not know. He had never seen them. The intention had been to find a cave for shelter, but as far as he knew this had not been done. Had all been well Biggles would have done something about it. Obviously all was not well, or Biggles would not have left it as late as this.
Night fell from a sky entirely covered with cloud, moonless and starless, to find him in a state of discomfort, indecision and perplexity. It was now too dark to do anything, so he remained in his seat, resigned. Visibility was down to a matter of a few yards, so there was no longer any point in trying to do anything, or see anything, either from the ridge or anywhere else. Feeling like a ship-wrecked mariner on a desert isle, he sank into a state of wretchedness, fed up with the whole business, for which he could hardly be blamed. Resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, he stared moodily into the black nothingness that lay between the ocean and the sky, neither of which he could see. All he could hear was the eternal lapping of the waves on the beach. He hoped, of course, to hear the crunch of shingle, or even a hail from Biggles, for this was where the others would come to look for him, if they could — when they could. No such sounds came to allay his fears.
How long he sat there he did not know. It seemed an eternity. He lost count of time. Time no longer mattered. It signified nothing. Sleep in such a position was out of the question, and to make matters worse the night breeze had brought a chill with it.
Then, suddenly, an object, the first he had seen for a long time, caught his eye. It was a light, out over the open sea, how far away he found it impossible to judge. It flashed three times. Then it had gone, leaving him wondering if he had really seen it. He waited, watching for it to reappear. It did not. But he decided that he could not have been mistaken. The light could only have come from a boat, and the way it had flashed could only mean it was a signal. That was not all, he reasoned as, sitting up, he began to take an interest in life. The craft, whatever it might be, was not carrying the regulation lights or he would see them. He remembered the other boat. He also recalled that the plane Rod had heard had not carried navigation lights. It looked as if the same sinister operations were on the move. He awaited developments.
He had not long to wait. This time it was his ears, not his eyes that brought him information. From the direction of the sea came the chug-chug-chug of a small oil engine. From somewhere behind him and not far away came the sound of voices, drawing nearer. For a moment he thought it might be Biggles, Rod and Bertie, but a guffaw told him it was not them. Biggles never made that sort of noise. It was the silly laugh of a man who has had too much to drink.
The voices came on as if the men were coming to the beach. It was, he thought, the most likely place for them to come. The beach, the boat, the men. It did not take long to work out the association. He did not move, for unless the approaching men literally fell over him there was no chance of them seeing him.
Then he heard another, quite different noise. It was the curious blowing that a horse sometimes makes through its nostrils. So the men had the horse with them. This meant, quite obviously, that they had brought something, presumably a fair load, or had come to fetch something that would need a horse to carry it.
Listening intently he heard the men, how many he could not tell, making their way down the bank with a good deal of noise. Footsteps crunching on the shingle not far away told him they were on the beach. They made so much noise that it was evident they had no suspicion that anyone else was there. This rather puzzled him. Why was that? They knew Rod was on the island and that he was not alone. Why were they so sure Rod and his friends were not where they had been all the time, near the harbour? That was where they would expect them to be. Yet here they were, behaving as though they were confident they had the place to themselves.
He caught a glimmer of the reason, or rather the confirmation of an uneasy suspicion that was creeping over him, when a voice said: ‘Yeah. I reckon that was pretty smart. We’ve given ‘em something to think about.’
This was followed by another laugh.
Ginger’s muscles stiffened. Given who something to think about? He was afraid he knew. Biggles’s party. It could refer to no one else, for the simple reason there was no one else on the island.
A light appeared on the beach. It was raised high, and waved. An answering light came from the sea. This time it remained steady. There was a hail. Oars splashed. A voice called: ‘Everything all right?’ Another answered: ‘Yes. The stuff’s here.’
More voices, as if a number of men were on the beach.
Ginger prayed for one short spell of moonlight so that he could see what was going on. None came, so he remained in ignorance.
Now came sounds that completely baffled him. Shouts, cries, sharp orders punctuated with heavy bumps. Presently he arrived at what he was sure could be the only explanation. The boat, or a boat, was being loaded or unloaded.
This was too much for his curiosity. There, right beside him, was the answer to the mystery of why the men were determined to keep the island to themselves. At any risk he had to find out what it was, for such an opportunity might not occur again. He began to feel his way forward, no easy matter with rocks projecting at all angles from crumbling peat and earth made slippery by rain. Once he held his breath as a rock on which his hand was resting came away under his weight and crashed on the beach, taking debris with it.
‘What the devil’s that?’ said someone.
‘Aw! It’s nothing,’ came an answer. ‘Just a rock. That’s where we had the fire. With no heather to hold ‘em more’ll be coming down for some time.’
Ginger breathed his relief, and moved on until he was on the beach within yards of the speaker, yet all he could see were vague shapes moving against the light. There seemed to be a lot of them. Once he caught a glimpse of a man with a large object on his shoulder. There was another bump as if it had been dropped on something hard. Once, too, an upturned torch passed over a sail, offering him a fleeting view of a recognition cypher painted on it. 722, he noted. A voice called: ‘That’s the lot, Joe.’
‘Okay, Bill, see you Thursday.’
‘We’ll get a good load ready for you. There’s some talk of the Navy taking over the island so we may have to shift.’
‘Who says so?’
‘Some friend of Macaster.’
‘Well don’t waste any time. We’ll get along.’
The lights went out. Oars creaked in rowlocks. Footsteps crunched in the loose shingle. The horse snorted as if it had been struck.
It was at this juncture that Ginger’s luck deserted him. He heard the rattle of pebbles become suddenly louder, as if they had turned towards him. He threw himself flat, face downwards, trusting not to be seen, aware that on the stones it would be impossible for him to run without being heard. In such darkness he was fairly confident he would not be noticed. Nor, perhaps, would he have been had it not been for the horse. It snorted and shied, causing the man leading it to be dragged and so stumble over him.
‘What the hell’s this?’ he shou
ted, in a voice stiff with alarm.
A torch flashed on. Realizing he could no longer hope to evade discovery, Ginger would have run. He started to scramble to his feet with that intention; but before he was properly up arms had closed round his neck, holding him in a vice-like grip. He struggled desperately to free himself, but strong hands gripped his arms. He fought like a wildcat, but his struggles ended when a fist landed on his jaw with a force that nearly knocked him out. Dimly, as he strove to keep his senses, he heard a voice say: ‘I wonder how long he’s been there? You said we’d got the lot.’
‘I thought we had. How was I to know there was another one?’
‘What are you going to do with him?’ asked a different voice.
‘We can talk about that later, when we find out who he is,’ said a third voice. ‘Let’s take him along where we can have a good look at him. We might put him with the others. He’ll be safe enough there.’
‘Better make sure he ain’t heeled,’ advised someone.
Hands ran over Ginger’s jacket and trouser pockets, and of course the gun was found.
‘What did you reckon to do with this?’ growled the man who removed it. ‘Never mind. I can do with a spare.’
‘Mind he don’t give us the slip in the dark,’ advised one of the gang.
‘I’ll see to that.’ The speaker tied Ginger’s hands and passed the horse’s lead rope through his arms. ‘I reckon that’ll do. Let’s get along.’
So began a tiresome walk across the moor in the direction of the castle.
Compelled to walk close beside the pony Ginger could not see very much, but what he did see dismayed him. There were no fewer than six men in the party, and he felt sure Biggles was not prepared for anything like that number. Bumping sometimes against the pony as they crossed the rough ground, he noticed it carried a pack saddle with a load of something lashed to it. It felt soft, and he made it out, by its shape, to be contained in a sack. There were in fact two sacks, one on each side.
As they tramped along he kept thinking of what had been said and tried to arrive at the precise meaning of the words. He was afraid they could only mean that Biggles and the others had already been captured. He derived a crumb of comfort from the knowledge — if this was correct — that he was to be put with them.
He was still pondering the situation when they arrived at the castle. He was released from the horse which was led away, presumably to be unloaded. Inside the hall his hands were freed, but he was still held in no uncertain fashion.
‘What brings you here?’ he was asked.
‘You,’ returned Ginger, briefly.
‘So that’s it.’
‘I’ve told you.’
‘Smart, eh? Well let me tell you something. Before I’m through with you you’ll wish you’d stayed home.’
In the light of the torch Ginger’s breast pocket was emptied. The man, apparently the leader, went through the papers it had contained. In doing so he came upon something that seemed to amuse him, for he chuckled and said: ‘My Gawd! If we ain’t caught a copper!’
Some of the others appeared to find nothing funny in this. Looking alarmed, one said: ‘What’s he doing here?’
The question was put to Ginger, who answered: ‘You should be able to guess that in one.’
‘I see. Now you can do a bit of guessing.’ Ginger was led through the main room and down the corridor to a door. A latch was raised. The door was opened a little way and he was thrust inside, into pitch darkness, with a force that sent him sprawling on the floor.
CHAPTER 10
A MYSTERY SOLVED
NOT a great deal of light found a way through the narrow windows of the castle kitchen in the broad light of day, but with night beginning to draw its curtain slowly across a sky already grey with low cloud, it was as much as Biggles, Rod and Bertie, could do to see each other.
As Biggles had remarked, to spend the night in utter darkness was not a pleasant prospect; therefore, as the footsteps of their captors receded along the corridor, he returned to the task he was about to begin when the interruption had occurred. This was to light a fire using the twigs and sticks in the recess, which it was assumed had been brought in for that purpose by a previous tenant.
The fire, however small, would at least enable them to see each other. This, of course, could only continue for as long as the fuel held out; but with care it could be made to last for some time. At all events it was better than nothing.
While Rod and Bertie crumpled one or two envelopes from their pockets to serve as the paper necessary for giving the fire a start, Biggles, on his knees, clawed the sticks clear from the bottom of the recess into the room. The stuff was mostly flimsy, probably bog myrtle, a shrub which flourished in the damp places of the island. He finished by scraping the bottom for the last few twigs, every one of which would be useful.
Suddenly he stopped what he was doing. ‘Just a minute,’ he said slowly, in a strange voice. ‘What have we here?’
As the entire floor had been paved with large, square-cut slabs of stone, it had been supposed, naturally, that the paving would be carried into the recess. And so, as a matter of fact, it had been; therefore the reason for Biggles’s exclamation was not immediately apparent to the others when they stepped forward to look.
‘What is it?’ asked Bertie. ‘What have you found?’
‘I’m not quite sure,’ returned Biggles, who was still kneeling with his right hand in the recess as if he was feeling something.
‘Can’t you see?’ queried Rod.
‘No. Show me a light.’
Rod, who carried matches instead of a petrol lighter, the better to light the cigar he sometimes smoked, produced a box. He struck a match and held it low, by Biggles’s shoulder. ‘What does it feel like?’ he questioned.
‘It feels like one of those handholds you can put your fingers through; the sort of thing you see in a manhole cover over a drain. An inspection pit I think it’s called. It’s stuffed up with dirt. I’m trying to clear it to see if I can get my fingers through. Yes, that’s it. I’ve got hold of it now.’
‘What about it?’
‘Don’t you see? It can only mean one thing. This particular slab was intended to be lifted. What other reason could there be for giving it a handle? There’s no other explanation.’
‘The slab covers a drain, I guess.’
‘Why put a drain in here?’
‘For swilling down the floor.’
‘Could be. But why put it in an awkward place like this? Why not knock a hole through the wall, as was done with the sink?’
‘Search me.’
Biggles was tugging. Nothing happened. ‘I’ll tell you something else,’ he went on. ‘Even with a handle to grip, it would need a man of more than ordinary strength to lift a flagstone this size and weight. You can only get at it by kneeling, and then you can’t get a straight pull.’
‘Could it be a well?’
‘It might be.’
‘Instead of arguing about it, why not have another go at lifting it?’ suggested Bertie.
Biggles obliged, without result. He got to his feet. ‘Here, Rod, you have a go. You’re the strong man of the party.’
Rod took up the position Biggles had vacated. He sat back on his haunches and strained until his back was bent like a bow. ‘No use,’ he said, relaxing. ‘It’d need a crane to shift it. As the thing’s arranged I doubt if any one man could move it. You can’t get a straight pull. The angle’s all wrong.’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. The only way you could get a direct pull would be by getting into the recess, and then you’d be trying to lift your own weight as well as the slab. No. That isn’t the answer. Yet I’m certain that slab was intended to come up. I don’t get it. How was it dropped into place, anyway? Tell me that. The difficulty would be the same. Worse, in fact. That slab was cut to fit, and it does — exactly. Anyone trying to lower it into its final position would stand a good chance of losing some
fingers. I’d be sorry to try it.’
‘Yet obviously somebody did it,’ murmured Rod.
‘Tell me how,’ requested Biggles.
Rod shrugged. ‘Beats me. One thing I didn’t expect to find here was a Chinese puzzle.’
‘What about that wheel affair, higher up?’ put in Bertie ‘Could that have something to do with it?’
For a moment there was silence. Then Biggles said: ‘I think you’ve got something there, Bertie. Wait a minute. Let me think.’
‘Shall I light the fire?’ suggested Bertie. ‘We might as well see what we’re doing, or trying to do.’
Biggles did not answer the question. He sat down again and stared into the cavity. After a little while he said: ‘I believe I’ve got it. Hand me the binoculars, one of you.’
Bertie fetched them. ‘I’m dashed if I can see how these are going to help,’ he remarked.
‘Maybe I can show you, although I wouldn’t care to bet on it,’ answered Biggles, as he took the glasses.
As is common with field-glasses they had a strap to enable them to be slung over the shoulder. This strap was attached to the case by a buckle at each end, so that it could be removed if so desired. Biggles took off the strap and handed the rest back to Bertie. The others watched in silence as he passed the strap through the handle in the slab. He then passed the strap over the wheel. ‘This, of course, was done originally with a length of rope,’ he observed.
By this time the others understood what he was doing, or hoped to do.
‘Not quite long enough,’ he said. ‘You wear a belt, Rod. Let me have it for a minute.’
Rod unbuckled his belt and handed it over. ‘Steady how you go with it,’ he requested anxiously. ‘I don’t want to walk home with my pants over my arm.’
‘Better than not being able to walk home at all,’ replied Biggles, as he attached the belt to the binoculars strap. This left a loose end rather more than a foot long. He handed it to Rod. ‘Now pull,’ he ordered.
