by W E Johns
‘There’s only one thing we can do, as far as I can see,’ replied Biggles, ‘and that’s have a look round the village while we’re here, while the place is comparatively deserted. We may not get another such chance. Don’t forget that so far we have no actual proof of what the Tiger is doing—that is, proof that would carry weight in a court of law. It wouldn’t be any use just talking vaguely about the Tiger being a crook, a slave-driver, a chicle thief, without evidence to prove it. This may be our chance to get such evidence. I’m going down into the village.’
Ginger stared aghast. ‘Going down! You must be crazy.’
‘We shan’t collect any evidence sitting here.’
‘We could watch them, though, and spot what was going on.’
‘Even so, I can’t see that we should learn more than we already know. We must get some concrete proof to secure a conviction. All the same, if we could capture the Tiger, or Bogat, and get back to the coast, we might hold him until we’d obtained the proof we need. Perhaps some of the slaves would give evidence. But we shan’t get any of these things sitting here. I’m going down.’
‘What do you want me to do? Shall I come with you, or stay here?’
Biggles thought for a moment. ‘I think you’d better come with me,’ he decided. ‘I may need a witness if I find anything—otherwise I should only have my unsubstantiated word.’
‘Suppose things go wrong? Algy won’t know what’s happened to us.’
‘We can easily get over that.’
Taking his notebook from his pocket, Biggles tore out a page and scribbled a brief message to the effect that a village was in the valley just ahead, and they were going down into it. Returning to the stairway, he put the message under a stone in a conspicuous place, and built a little cairn beside it so that it could not be missed by anyone coming down. This done, they returned to the valley, and after hunting about for a little while found a way down into it.
‘Keep this place in your mind’s eye,’ said Biggles quietly, surveying the spot where they had descended. ‘We may have to come back this way—in a hurry. Try to get a mental photograph of the silhouette of the rocks, in case we have to find it in the dark.’
This did not take long, after which Biggles turned towards the village.
‘I think our best policy is to go straight up to the house,’ he surprised Ginger by saying. ‘In fact, I don’t see that we can do anything else. There’s no real cover, so even if we tried stalking tactics it is almost certain that we should be seen; and if we were spotted skulking like a couple of thieves, there would probably be an outcry. I think this is a case of bluff. All the same, we needn’t expose ourselves unnecessarily; we’ll just stroll along, and if nobody sees our faces we may get away with it.’
‘You know best,’ agreed Ginger, ‘but it seems a risky business to me. I never was one for jumping into a lion’s den without first making sure that the lion wasn’t at home.’
Biggles smiled, and walked on towards the village, the nearest buildings of which were not more than a hundred yards away.
They had covered about half the distance when Biggles touched Ginger on the arm, and with an inclination of his head indicated something that he had seen. The boundaries of the valley were now apparent. Hemmed in by cliffs, sometimes high, and, in a few places, fairly low, such as at the spot where they had entered it, there was only one proper entrance. This was a narrow pass at the southern end of the track, a mere defile through the rock wall, presumably where those who lived in the village descended to the forest some four hundred feet below. At this natural gateway two men were on guard; at least, they were armed with rifles. Smoking, they lounged against the wall of the pass.
‘If that is the only entrance to the valley, those fellows will wonder how the deuce we got in,’ said Biggles softly. ‘There is this about it, though; the people in the village—if there are any—knowing that men are on guard at the entrance, might suppose that we are here on business. My word,’ he went on, glancing round, ‘what a spot for a hide-out. Carruthers was right. An army might have wandered about in the forest for years without even suspecting that this place was here. It would need an army to capture it, too, against a score of determined men.’
‘There’s one thing that puzzles me,’ remarked Ginger. ‘Dusky said he found the foot of the stairway. Anyway, he saw a stairway, so we must assume that it was the terminus of the path we came down. Yet, judging by the way he mentioned it—he was actually clearing the jungle, you remember? it seems that those steps weren’t used, which means there must be another way up. In fact, the Tiger may still not know that Dusky’s stairway exists.’
‘By jove! I didn’t think of that,’ returned Biggles quickly. ‘You’re dead right. Whether they have known about the stairway all along, or discovered it since Dusky was there, it seems unlikely that it is used. There is probably an easier way down. It doesn’t matter at the moment, but we’ll bear it in mind.’
By this time they had reached the village, still without seeing anyone apart from the two men on duty. A drowsy silence broken only by the hum of insects hung on the air.
Biggles avoided the main street, a dusty track often interrupted by outcrops of rock, which wound a crooked course between the houses—most of them little better than hovels—and kept to the rear of the buildings, moving steadily towards the big bungalow.
As they neared it they came suddenly upon a woman; she was on her knees, grinding maize; she looked surprised when she saw the strangers, but said nothing, and after they had passed they could hear her going on with her monotonous task.
‘It would be a joke, wouldn’t it, if this isn’t the place we’re looking for, after all?’ murmured Ginger. ‘It might turn out to be a perfectly legitimate village.’
‘People don’t post guards at the entrance to a perfectly legitimate village,’ Biggles reminded him. ‘Moreover, if this place was above-board, there would surely be some attempt at cultivation; and there would be no need for chicleros to sweat up and down four hundred feet of rock every time they went to work. All right—here we are; keep quiet now.’
They had reached the entrance to the yard that gave access to the outbuildings of the big house, the back door of which also opened into it. The fire which they had seen from the rocks was still burning; above it was suspended an iron cauldron from which arose an appetizing aroma.
‘We’ll try the outbuildings first,’ said Biggles quietly, and walked over to them; but if he hoped to see what they contained he was disappointed, for they were locked, every one of them, and there were six in all, large and small. But from the far one they were granted a view of something which hitherto had been hidden by a corner of the house. It was a garden, a walled-in area, an unsuspected Eden. Grapes hung in purple clusters from an overhead trellis; scarlet tomatoes gleamed among the golden stalks of Indian corn; huge yellow gourds lay about among vines that wandered through flowers of brilliant colours. A bush loaded with great blue plums made Ginger’s mouth water. This pleasant scene was enhanced by a pigeon-cote, where several birds were preening themselves. Into this unsuspected paradise Biggles led the way. Ginger made for the plums, but Biggles dragged him back into a shady arbour where a tiny fountain bubbled.
‘Don’t be an ass,’ he muttered; ‘we’re on thin ice here. Don’t you realise that we’re in the king’s garden? Stand fast.’
Peering through the creepers that covered the arbour, Ginger saw that they were now at the side of the house. A long, low window overlooked the garden. Near it was a door. It was open.
‘We’re doing well. Let’s have a look inside,’ murmured Biggles, and went on to the door, which gave access to the garden, but obviously was not the main entrance to the house.
After a cautious peep inside Biggles took a pace over the threshold, Ginger at his elbow.
He whistled softly as he looked round.
‘And I should say this is the king’s parlour,’ he whispered. The room was magnificently, if ostentatious
ly, furnished as something between a lounge and an office. An old, beautifully carved Spanish sideboard was disfigured by a lot of cheap, modern bric-à-brac. Bottles and glasses stood on a brass-topped table. A modern roll-top desk, littered with account-books and papers, stood near the far wall; but the piece that fascinated Ginger most was a fine, leather-covered chest. In strange contrast, near it stood an American steel safe. A second door led into the interior of the house. A strange foreign odour hung in the sultry air.
So much the visitors saw at a glance. After listening intently for a moment, Biggles walked over to the desk, where he began to scan the papers, but without disturbing them.
He opened a ledger, and whistled softly as his eyes ran down the items.
‘This is all we wanted to know,’ he breathed. ‘This is the Tiger’s sanctum all right, and these are his accounts. There’s enough documentary evidence here to hang him twice over. He’s evidently a gentleman of some taste, too. Hullo, what’s this?’
As he spoke Biggles picked up a tiny slip of flimsy paper that was lying on the desk, held in place by a cartridge used as a paper-weight. As he picked up the paper and read what was written on it his brow creased with anger and astonishment; he stared at it for so long that Ginger’s curiosity could not be restrained.
‘What is it?’ he demanded.
‘You might well ask,’ replied Biggles through his teeth. ‘It explains a lot of things. Take a look at that.’ He passed the paper.
Ginger read the message, his lips forming the words:
‘Keep watch for three Britishers in airplane. They are government spies sent to get you, acting for Carruthers. Names are Bigglesworth, Lacey and Hebblethwaite. They have been sworn in as police, and have got one of your peons, the man Bogat shot. They will use him as evidence.
M. C.’
‘Did you note the initials?’ inquired Biggles.
‘Yes. Who on earth—’
‘M.C. stands for Marcel Chorro—who else? He’s the only man besides Carruthers who knows what we’re doing. Evidently he is one of the Tiger’s spies. My goodness! No wonder Carruthers found it hard to get evidence. Chorro must have been the swine who loosened my turnbuckles—yes, by gosh! Now we know how Bogat knew we were camping at the lake. He marched straight through the forest to attack us.’
‘But how the dickens could Chorro have got a message through in the time?’ gasped Ginger. ‘The fastest canoe on the river couldn’t get here much inside a week.’
‘You saw the pigeon-cote outside, didn’t you? Notice the thin paper used for the message.’
Ginger caught his breath. ‘So that’s it. Chorro and the Tiger run a pigeon post.’
‘Undoubtedly. Come on, we’ve seen enough. It’s no use tempting providence—we’ll get back to Algy right away.’
Biggles started towards the door, but recoiled in horror. With staring eyes he clutched Ginger by the arm and held him back.
Ginger, following the direction of Biggles’s eyes, felt his blood turn to ice. For some minutes he had been aware that the strange aroma had been getting more noticeable, now he saw the reason.
Emerging slowly from the chest that he had so much admired was a snake, but such a snake as not even a nightmare could have produced. As thick as a man’s thigh, coil after coil was gliding sinuously out of the chest as though it would never end. Already fifteen feet of rippling horror lay stretched across the room, cutting them off from the door and the window.
7
IN THE CLAWS OF THE TIGER
How long Ginger stood staring at the snake he did not know. He seemed to lose all count of time; he forgot where he was, and what he was doing. He was conscious of one thing only—the snake. Its little black eyes, glinting like crystals when the light caught them, fascinated him. After the first gasp of horror not a sound left his lips.
Pulling himself together with a mighty effort, he looked at Biggles, and saw that he, too, was at a loss to know what to do. He stared at the snake, then at the door, then back at the reptile. Once he braced himself as if he contemplated taking a flying leap; then he cocked his rifle and tried in vain to draw a bead on the swaying head.
‘Go on—shoot,’ urged Ginger, in something very near a panic.
‘I daren’t risk it,’ muttered Biggles. ‘That head is a small mark for a rifle, and if I miss, the shot will raise the place. If I only wounded the beast goodness knows what would happen.’
Curiously enough, the snake—which Biggles thought was a python—made no attempt to attack them; it lay across the floor, watching them in an almost human manner; it was as if it knew they were intruders, and had determined to prevent them from escaping. Every time they moved, it raised its head, hissing venomously, causing them to retire.
Torn by doubt and indecision, Biggles was still trying to think of a way out of their quandary when from outside came the sound of voices, followed a moment later by the trampling of footsteps; and almost before he was fully alive to their danger the inner door was thrown open and a man came in to the room. He took one pace only and then stopped dead, staring at the spectacle that confronted him. Then his hand flashed to a holster that was strapped to his hip, and came up holding a revolver.
At first Ginger thought he was going to shoot the snake, but it was soon clear that this was not his intention, for he took not the slightest notice of the creature, although it had turned towards him and was now rubbing its sinuous body against his leg. Not until then did Ginger realise that the reptile was a pet, and not a wild creature that had invaded the house from the forest.
The newcomer, who was clearly the owner of the house, even if he were not the reputed King of the Forest, was a striking figure, but certainly not a pleasing one. He was a half-caste, the black predominating, of about fifty years of age; he was of medium height, but of massive, though corpulent, proportions. His arms and shoulders might have been those of a gorilla, but as an example of physique he was spoilt by a paunch of a stomach which, like his face, was flabby from over-eating or self-indulgence, or both. His cheeks were puffy, but his chin was pugnacious. His eyes were small and dark; they were never still, but flashed suspiciously this way and that. His hair was long and luxuriant, but had a unmistakable negroid twist in it. An enormous black moustache drooped from his upper lip. He was dressed—or rather, over-dressed—in a uniform so elaborate, so heavy with gold braid, and of colours so brilliant that not even a cinema commissionaire would have dared to wear it. The general effect was that of a comic-opera brigand; but, looking at the coarse face, Biggles judged him to be a man of considerable mental and physical strength, vain, crafty, and unscrupulous; a man who would be brutal for the sheer pleasure of it, but who, at a pinch, might turn out to be a coward.
The newcomer broke the silence by calling out in a loud voice, ‘Marita! Who are these men?’ He spoke in Spanish.
A woman, evidently Marita, she who had tended the fire, appeared in the background. In the same language she answered, nervously, that she did not know the men. She had never seen them before—which was true enough.
The man came farther into the room. He spoke in a soft, sibilant voice to the snake, which writhed out of sight under the desk. Then he eyed Biggles suspiciously.
‘What language you speak, eh?’ he asked, talking now in English with an American accent, from which it may be concluded that he assumed the airmen to be either British or American.
‘We speak English,’ answered Biggles.
‘What you come here for, huh?’ rasped the half-caste. Then, before Biggles could answer, understanding flashed into his eyes. They switched to the desk, and Biggles knew that he had remembered the note from Chorro.
‘Am I right in supposing that I’m speaking to the King of the Forest?’ inquired Biggles calmly.
The half-caste’s eyes narrowed. ‘I am the king,’ he said harshly. ‘Where is the other man?’
‘What other man?’
‘There are three of you. Where is he?’
‘Wha
t are you talking about?’ demanded Biggles, although he knew well enough what was meant.
‘Which of you is Bigglesworth?’
Biggles realised that it was useless to pretend. The Tiger knew they were in the district; he was also aware that the chances of any other white men being there were so remote as to be ignored.
‘I’m Bigglesworth,’ answered Biggles quietly.
An ugly smile spread slowly over the Tiger’s face. He put a small silver whistle to his lips and blew a shrill signal. Instantly men came running. With them were two white men whom Biggles guessed were those to whom Dusky had referred. The first was tall and cadaverous; he could only be called white by courtesy, for jaundice had set its mark on his face, leaving it an unhealthy yellow. The same unpleasant tint was discernible in the whites of his eyes, which were pale grey and set under shaggy brows. His mouth was large, with thin lips; nor was his appearance improved by ears that stuck out nearly at right angles from his head. His companion was a weedy-looking individual of nondescript type. Lank, hay-coloured hair covered his head; a moustache of the same tint straggled across his upper lip, stained in the middle with nicotine. An untidy, hand-made cigarette was even then in his mouth.
The Tiger called them in and indicated the prisoners with a theatrical wave of his arm. ‘The cops got here before us—that saves us the trouble of going to fetch them.’ Then a look of doubt returned to his eyes. ‘Where’s the other one?’ he purred.
‘Oh, he’s about,’ returned Biggles evenly.
‘Where is he?’
‘Look around, maybe you’ll find him... maybe not.’
The Tiger changed the subject. ‘How did you get here? Who brought you?’
Biggles smiled faintly. ‘We brought ourselves.’
‘That’s a lie,’ snarled the Tiger, crouching as though to spring, and Biggles began to understand how he had got his doubtful nickname. ‘Somebody showed you the way in— who was it? I’ll tear the hide off him.’
