by W E Johns
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1: BIGGLES MEETS AN OLD FRIEND
CHAPTER 2: AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER
CHAPTER 3: DUSKY TELLS HIS STORY AND GINGER LEARNS A LESSON
CHAPTER 4: A VISITOR AND A MYSTERY
CHAPTER 5: THE ENEMY STRIKES
CHAPTER 6: DOWN THE UNKNOWN TRAIL
CHAPTER 7: IN THE CLAWS OF THE TIGER
CHAPTER 8: ALGY EXPLORES
CHAPTER 9: NEW PERILS
CHAPTER 10: SWIFT DEVELOPMENTS
CHAPTER 11: THE SNAKE
CHAPTER 12: GINGER GETS SOME SHOCKS
CHAPTER 13: STRANGE EVENTS
CHAPTER 14: BIGGLES MAKES A CAPTURE
CHAPTER 15: DESPERATE DIVERSIONS
CHAPTER 16: CARRUTHERS TAKES A HAND
CHAPTER 17: UNEXPECTED MEETINGS
1
BIGGLES MEETS AN OLD FRIEND
WITH its altimeter registering six thousand feet, a travel-stained amphibian aircraft nosed steadily southward under a Central American sky of azure blue. To port lay the deep green of the Atlantic Ocean, rolling away and away to the infinite distance. To starboard, the primeval forest sprawled like a great stain, filling the landscape until at last it merged into the purple haze of the far horizon. Immediately below the aircraft a white, irregular line of surf marked the juncture of land and sea.
There were three passengers in the machine. At the controls was Major Bigglesworth, D.S.O., better known as ‘Biggles’. In the spare seat beside him, regarding the vast panorama with dispassionate familiarity, was his protégé, ‘Ginger’ Hebblethwaite. Behind, plotting a compass course, sat their mutual friend and comrade, Captain the Honourable ‘Algy’ Lacey. He completed his calculation and came forward.
‘I make us out to be off the coast of British Honduras,’ he announced.
Biggles smiled faintly. ‘You’re a bit late in the day, old boy. Unless I’m mistaken, that’s Belize, the capital of the colony, just ahead of us.’
‘Are you going down?’ asked Algy.
‘We shall have to,’ answered Biggles. ‘That confounded head wind which we ran into this morning was outside my calculations; it lost us so much time that we shall have to fill up with fuel and oil before we go on. This is no place for a forced landing.’
‘You mean—you’ll go down at Belize?’
‘Yes. There’s a Pan-American Airways maintenance station there. They’re a decent crowd. They’ll let us have some juice.’
‘Do you know anybody there?’
‘I don’t know the Pan-American staff; but I know a fellow in the Government House— that is, if he’s still there; a chap named Carruthers. I did him a good turn some years ago, when he was British Vice-Consul at La Paz, in Bolivia, on the other side of the continent. We might look him up. If he’s still here no doubt he will be glad to repay an old debt by offering us hospitality. He’ll probably be glad to see us in any case; I don’t suppose he gets many visitors at an off-the-map place like Belize.’
As he spoke Biggles retarded the throttle and allowed the aircraft to lose height in a steady glide that carried it on towards a little town that nestled on the edge of the sea, backed by the sombre forest. He was in no hurry, for—for once—the party was on a pleasure cruise, with no particular object in view beyond seeing something of the world, in fair weather, as an alternative to remaining in London through a dull winter.
Ginger had been largely responsible for the trip. Bored by a spell of inactivity, he had threatened to go off alone, taking the aircraft, an amphibian named Wanderer, if the others refused to bestir themselves. Biggles, always tolerant, had proposed a trip to Central America to examine the possibilities of an air service between British possessions on the mainland and the West Indies. This project, he declared, need not necessarily be definitely pursued. It provided an object for the flight, as opposed to aimless wandering.
So far the trip had been uneventful. The adventures which in his heart Ginger had hoped they might encounter had failed to materialise. He was getting slightly bored, and made no secret of it. As a form of relaxation on the ground he had decided to collect butterflies, the beauty of which at some of their ports of call had entranced him, with the result that he was taking a new interest in entomology.
Biggles glanced at him. ‘Do you know anything about Honduras?’ he asked.
Ginger shook his head. ‘No. I once saw the name on a postage stamp, otherwise I shouldn’t have known that the place existed. Is there anything remarkable about it?’
‘No, I can’t say there is,’ replied Biggles reflectively. ‘It’s much the same as the rest of Central America. Outside the capital I imagine it’s a pretty wild spot. I’m told there’s some fine timber there—some of the best mahogany comes from Honduras. The most interesting thing about it from our point of view, having done a bit of aerial exploring, is the Unknown River.’
‘Unknown River?’ But that doesn’t make sense,’ protested Ginger. ‘Either there is a river or there isn’t. If there is—well, it must be known. If there isn’t, why worry about it?’
‘Nobody’s worrying about it as far as I know,’ returned Biggles. ‘The mouth of the river is known, but from what I can make out the upper reaches have never been explored. It’s supposed to rise somewhere in Guatemala, which backs on to Honduras.’
‘Why hasn’t it been explored?’
‘Presumably because nobody has had the energy, or the money, or any reason to do so.’
‘Then why are people concerned about it?’
‘Because the river crops up from time to time in the newspapers in connection with the lost Carmichael treasure. There was a talk on the radio about it not long ago.’
Ginger started and sat up. ‘Treasure! Why didn’t you say that at first? That sounds more my mark. Tell me about it.’
Biggles smiled sadly. ‘I was afraid you’d get excited if I mentioned the treasure. Don’t get any wild ideas—I’m not going off on a treasure-hunt.’
‘Of course not,’ agreed Ginger airily. ‘Still, there’s no harm in my knowing about it, is there?’
‘I suppose not,’ assented Biggles. ‘It’s an old tale, not much more than a legend. This country is stiff with legends about treasures. Speaking from memory, this particular yarn started away back in 1860, or thereabouts, when a fellow named Carmichael, travelling up-country, saved the lives of two Indians. In return they promised to show him the spot where Montezuma hid his treasure from the Spaniards. They went, and found a ruined city. Carmichael cut a cross—or made a mark—on a temple, or the ruins of a temple, under which the Indians said the gold was buried; then he came back for help. When he returned he couldn’t find the temple—or the city, for that matter. Nobody ever has found it, although they’ve discovered quite a number of other old cities. The fact is, there are so many of these old cities now swallowed up by the jungle that they can’t work out which is the right one. Anyway, most people in Central America have heard of the Carmichael treasure. Several attempts have been made to locate it, but all people find are the traces of a vast and very ancient civilisation—that’s all.’
A thoughtful look came into Ginger’s eyes. ‘While we’re on the spot we might collect what facts there are available,’ he suggested hopefully.
‘To what purpose?’ inquired Biggles coldly.
‘Well—I mean—of course, I’m not suggesting a definite trip, or anything like that; but if we happened to be near the place—’
‘If I have my way we shan’t be near it,’ declared Biggles. ‘All you’d be likely to find in that jungle would be Indians, mosquitoes, leeches, ticks, snakes, and a few other horrors.If you didn’t find them they’d find you. Tropical forests may sound great fun, but they can be very, very uncomfortab
le. Believe me, I know.’
‘Does no one ever go into this forest?’
‘Oh yes. Rubber collectors and chicle-hunters—mostly natives.’
‘Chicle? What’s that?’
‘The stuff they make chewing-gum out of—at least, chicle is the base. Like rubber, it’s the sap of a tree. Chicle is the colony’s most important export.’
Ginger shook his head. ‘Sounds a sticky business to me.’
And there the conversation ended, for Biggles had to concentrate his attention on putting the aircraft on the water. This he did on an open stretch marked by buoys and a wind-stocking pole, which, as he expected, turned out to be an emergency landing-ground for the big Pan-American Clippers that operated up and down the coast from the United States to Argentina. The local superintendent was helpful, giving them a mooring and promising to fill the tanks. Well satisfied with this arrangement, the airmen went into town to have a meal, seek accommodation for the night, and, if he was still in the colony, call on Carruthers.
As it happened, they met him just leaving his office, and after greetings had been exchanged, and introductions effected, he insisted on their making their home in his roomy bungalow while they were there.
Ginger, although he did not comment on it, was rather disappointed in the size of the town, considering that it was the capital of a British colony. He realised that there was nothing remarkable in meeting Carruthers as they did, for the administration of the colony was carried on by a small staff. Normally, it turned out, Carruthers was senior Resident Magistrate, but at the moment, the Governor being away on leave, he was acting for him. He was a fair, good-looking young man in the late twenties, with keen blue eyes and a closely clipped moustache. His manner was debonair, but behind it was an alert, authoritative bearing.
‘You know, Carruthers,’ observed Biggles, as they sat over their after-dinner coffee, ‘you’ve aged a good deal since I last saw you.’
‘Do you wonder?’ Carruthers’ tone was rather bitter.
‘You mean—it’s the climate?’
‘Not entirely, although it’s certainly enervating. To turn your hair grey, you should try keeping order in thousands of miles of jungle with a handful of men. That’s what I’m up against all the time. I know it sounds easy, and you may think I haven’t much to do, but believe me, my hands are full.’
‘How does the jungle make so much work for you?’ put in Algy.
‘It isn’t the jungle; it’s the people in it.’
‘Hostile Indians?’
‘There are plenty of those, of course, but left alone they wouldn’t give us much trouble; but lately they’ve been playing Old Harry with the up-river stations, and with chicle-collectors and other travellers from the coast. Something seems to have happened. It’s almost as if the Indians are organised. In fact, the coastal natives say that is the case, but it’s hard to find out just what is going on. There is wild talk—rumour, of course—about a fellow who calls himself King of the Forest, or some equally fantastic title; but what his game is, if he really exists, I haven’t yet been able to discover. It’s practically impossible to separate rumour from fact. All the same, if half the rumours I hear are true, then there are brains behind the scheme. I’m responsible for the country, so it gets me worried. If anything goes wrong, I have to take the blame.’
‘But as long as this so-called King of the Forest doesn’t interfere with you, what does it matter?’ queried Biggles.
‘But he is beginning to interfere with me—or somebody is, although I’m still in the dark. For instance, as you probably know, chicle is an important commodity here. It’s collected by natives. They are jibbing at going up the river, consequently the stuff isn’t coming in as it should. Yet the amazing thing is, there are indications that Honduras chicle is still reaching the U.S.A. in quantities as large as usual. Where is it coming from? Who’s collecting it? On top of all this I get an inquiry from the Home Office about three white men who are supposed to have disappeared into the interior. I haven’t all the facts yet, but apparently they were on a crazy treasure-hunt.’
‘Then there is a treasure?’ put in Ginger quickly.
Carruthers shrugged his shoulders. ‘I suppose there must be some foundation for the rumour. It was alleged to have been seen years ago by a fellow named Carmichael. Beyond that I know no more than you do about it. How these three white men got into the interior without official permission, or why they should go without first reporting to me, so that in the event of trouble I should know roughly where they were, I don’t understand. They were last heard of on the Unknown River. With two of them I’m not particularly concerned, but the other, a young fellow, happens to have a wealthy and anxious father in the United States, and he’s kicking up a nice row because I can’t find his son.
‘If this fellow who calls himself King of the Forest really exists, and if these Americans have fallen foul of him, they may have had their throats cut. So you see, with one thing and another, I’m having a pretty worrying job. It takes my small staff all its time to handle the ordinary business of the country, without wandering about the jungle looking for lost Americans, chicle-collectors, and self-appointed kings. There is talk of the American archaeological survey people coming back here to resume their work. If they do they may be murdered. Yet if I refuse to grant permission there’ll be a scream from the Foreign Office.’
‘What do these people want to do?’ inquired Biggles curiously.
‘Go on with their survey work—delving into the old ruins that exist in the jungle. As a matter of fact, they’ve made some very interesting discoveries on the sites of two ancient cities called Tikal and Uaxactun. They now want to locate some more sites which they feel sure exist. It shouldn’t be hard, because most of these old cities are marked by pyramids like those of Egypt. They’re enormous, and although they are buried in the jungle, the tops are often higher than the highest trees.’
‘Obviously, what you’ll have to do is ascertain if this King of the Forest fellow really exists,’ declared Biggles. ‘If he does you’ll have to arrest him. You won’t have any peace until you do.’
Carruthers laughed bitterly. ‘Arrest him? How? Who is going to find him, for a start?’
‘There’s no indication of where he hangs out?’
‘None. The natives tell a ridiculous story about a secret town in the forest, which doesn’t strike me as being likely.’
‘Still, if that were true, it shouldn’t be hard to find.’
‘You might look for years without finding it.’
‘In a search from ground level, I agree. I was thinking of reconnaissance from the air.’
‘That would be an entirely different matter,’ asserted Carruthers. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t happen to have an Air Force. I can’t get a new launch, much less a plane.’
Biggles smiled. ‘I have one,’ he reminded. ‘You can borrow it with pleasure.’
‘Thanks, but who’s going to fly it? I’m not a pilot—nor do I know of one in this part of the world.’
Biggles took a cigarette and tapped it thoughtfully on the back of his hand. ‘We’re not in a hurry,’ he said pointedly. ‘We might find time to have a look round for you—if the idea makes any appeal. There seems to be plenty to look for—pyramids, ruined cities, lost Americans, the king’s secret town—treasure—we ought to be able to find something. If we did spot anything we could pin-point the place on the map and let you know. That would be a help.’
‘A help! I should jolly well think it would,’ declared Carruthers. ‘Do you seriously mean you’d do this?’
‘Why not? We’re doing nothing in particular. We might as well do something useful. In any case, although I hadn’t mentioned it to the others, I was contemplating a survey flight up the Unknown River, just as a matter of curiosity.’
‘That would be an important piece of work even if you found nothing else,’ remarked Carruthers. ‘I’d really be most grateful if you’d do this.’
‘The
n you can consider it settled,’ affirmed Biggles.
‘Fine. You have official sanction for the undertaking. When do you propose to start?’
Biggles shrugged his shoulders. ‘It doesn’t really matter. As far as I’m concerned I could start tomorrow. If the others aren’t too tired—’
‘I’m not tired,’ put in Ginger quickly. ‘This promises to be interesting. I always did like looking for things.’
‘Very well. If it’s all right with you, Algy, we’ll start in the morning,’ concluded Biggles.
An hour later, to the serenade of bull-frogs croaking in a nearby swamp, Ginger went to bed, to sleep and to dream of kings and lost Americans fighting for a treasure on the summit of a pyramid.
2
AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER
As the first rays of the tropic sun splashed the eastern sky with gleaming gold and turquoise, the thin miasma of mist which hung over the silent lake began to rise, revealing a number of things that floated on its placid surface—a giant water-lily with thick, circular leaves, each as large as a table; over the snow-white blossom a humming-bird, a living ruby with an emerald breast, hung motionless on whirring wings, its three-inch bill probing the nectary for honey; a log, with two protuberances at one end—or what appeared to be a log, although it had a curious trick of submerging and reappearing in another place. There was also an aircraft, an amphibian, which bore on its nose the single word Wanderer.
The aircraft rocked gently, so that ripples lapped its sides, as Ginger’s head appeared above the central hatchway, to be followed a moment later by the barrel of a rifle. For a brief moment the silence persisted, then it was shattered by a gunshot. The ‘log’ jerked spasmodically, lashing the water to creamy foam before it disappeared. At the sound of the shot a flock of green parrots rose screaming from the nearby forest. Ginger drew himself up level with the hull, regarding intently the spot where the alligator had disappeared.
‘Did you get him?’ called Biggles from inside the machine.
‘I don’t think so, but I tickled him up a bit,’ returned Ginger. ‘It was the same big brute that was nosing round in the night.’
