by W E Johns
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I: PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE
CHAPTER II: A TOUGH PROPOSITION
CHAPTER III: THE START
CHAPTER IV: NOTHING DOING
CHAPTER V: AN UNEXPECTED CHANCE
CHAPTER VI: TIGER!
CHAPTER VII: TROUBLES AT THE LAKE
CHAPTER VIII: GINGER DROPS IN
CHAPTER IX: DEATH IN THE NULLAH
CHAPTER X: HOT WORK
CHAPTER XI: BIGGLES ARRIVES
CHAPTER XII: WHAT NEXT?
CHAPTER XIII: A WAITING GAME
CHAPTER XIV: HAMID KHAN SHOWS HOW
CHAPTER XV: A GOOD DAY’S WORK
CHAPTER XVI: THE FINAL SHOCK
CHAPTER I
THE hour was that expectant moment between the false dawn and the true: that fleeting interval of time between the death of the moon and stars and the birth of the sun: those few heart-searching seconds when all nature seems to hold its breath as it waits in twilight for the miracle of another day.
The world lay in a trance, as if on the brink of eternity. The silence was profound. No bird sang. No insect hummed. No reptile croaked. The uneasy sounds of the jungle night had died away; those of the sunlit hours had not begun. Nothing stirred; not a cloud in the sky, not a leaf on a tree nor a ripple on the lonely lake called Timbi Tso. The drooping fronds of the palms, bowing to their reflections in the water, might have been the painted wooden dummies of a stage set.
The dawn marched nearer, the sun, victorious as always, even though it had not yet shown its face, driving out the last reluctant shades of night.
Knee deep in maidenhair fern Police Pilot “Ginger” Hebblethwaite, clad in an open-necked tunic shirt and shorts, stood on the edge of the lake near the Air Police Gadfly amphibious aircraft that floated on its own inverted image, lost in wonder at the beauty of the scene as one by one the seconds passed, to be lost for ever in the sea of Time.
Half veiled in a tenuous mist that contributed an atmosphere of mystery, the picture before him, a harmonious blending of blues and mauves and greys, had more the quality of a dream than factual reality. To add further gratification to the senses the air was heavy with a sweet if rather sickly fragrance.
The light grew stronger. The water gleamed, translucent, with those elusive hues of mother-of-pearl for which no name has yet been found. It might have been a mirror, a sheet of lustre glass, blown by the spirits of the forest which surrounded it, the trees reflecting in it with startling fidelity their every detail. Floating on its surface here and there were the big flat plates of water-lily leaves, the flowers upturned like gold and silver chalices to catch the dew.
Fringing the lake, enclosing it like the walls of a prison designed to keep it for ever in seclusion, was a riot of vegetation not of this world. Some of the trees had trunks and branches of pink and white, so unnatural as to strain credulity. From one that had fallen in the water a spray of orchids sprang like an orange flame. Another had leaves like Indian rugs. The fronds of tree-ferns, six feet long, formed arching curves as if, too long confined, they had burst like rockets to gain their freedom. Over some of them laburnum had hung its golden chains. The pale green lances of bamboos, with their narrow swordlike foliage, stood in close-packed groups as if for mutual protection.
Far, far away, a hundred miles or more, high above the northern confines of the lake, depending as it seemed from heaven itself, ran a ghostly fringe which Ginger knew was some of the nearer Himalayan giants that roof the world; the sacred peaks of Triscul, Kedarath and Badrinath, which, as some hillmen believe, are the homes of the gods that rule the universe.
The sun announced its arrival with lances of white light thrust deep into the heart of a sky of eggshell blue, shivering it into pink. The rim of its disc rose above the horizon and it was day. With it the breathless moment passed and the jungle breathed again. A peacock, a living jewel as the rays of light touched its turquoise and purple breast, rose suddenly. It settled on the branch of a tree and from that safe perch, with its crested head held over sideways, eyed the ground with obvious suspicion. Near by an unseen monkey chattered, scolding.
The cause of the disturbance soon appeared. From behind a thicket of madar scrub, mauve and white with its poisonous blossoms, with lordly bearing and easy gait stepped a tiger, calm and confident, making no more noise in its passage than a fish swimming in deep water. It stopped abruptly in mid-step, one paw raised, as if sensing the presence of the man, and looked directly at him. Ginger met its gaze. He did not move. He made no sound. Neither did the tiger.
For a few seconds the black and yellow monarch of the jungle regarded the man with evident surprise, and then, with casual indifference, walked on, to disappear like a passing shadow into the gloomy depths of the everlasting forest.
Ginger breathed again. Not that he had been particularly afraid, either because the animal had shown no sign of hostility or because it had seemed to fit so perfectly into the picture. Picking up the can of water he had been to the lake to fetch for the early morning tea he went on to a small, square-shaped tent that had been pitched in a little open space a dozen yards from the shore of the lake.
“There’s a tiger outside,” he announced, as he put down the can.
Biggles yawned, stretched, and sat up on the blanket on which he had been sleeping. “What was he doing?” he inquired, without showing any great interest.
“Nothing in particular, as far as I could make out. Just having his morning constitutional from the way he was strolling.”
“Probably looking for his breakfast. He won’t trouble us if we don’t try any tricks on him. Normal tigers like men no more than normal men like tigers.”
“I hope you’re right,” returned Ginger, dubiously. “I, for one, shall do my best to keep out of his way.”
“What’s the weather like?” Biggles lit a cigarette.
“Fine. It’s broad daylight, so get weaving. I’m making the tea.”
From which it may be gathered that to Ginger had fallen the lot of the dawn guard.
He touched Algy and Bertie, who had not moved, with his foot. “Show a leg there,” he ordered. “You’re burning daylight.”
A minute later he nearly dropped the teapot when the quiet that had fallen was shattered by a roar, not far away, so frightful that Algy and Bertie leapt from their blankets like twin Jack-in-the-boxes.
The roar was repeated, blended now with a squeal of fury and a crashing of bushes.
“Oh here! I say, chaps! Dash it all. Who’s doing that? Where’s the rifle! And I’ve dropped my bally eyeglass.” All this was in one breath as Bertie, in his pyjamas, shook his blanket.
Biggles was sitting on his own blanket, his face in his hands, rocking with silent laughter at the panic the uproar had created.
“What’s so funny?” inquired Ginger, indignantly. His face had lost some of its colour.
“You,” replied Biggles, looking up and wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.
The noise outside continued.
“But that’s a tiger,” declared Ginger. “I saw it. I told you.”
“Of course it’s a tiger. What do you think I thought it was—a mouse? Pour me a cup of tea.”
“Aren’t you going to do anything about it?”
“Not me. What do you take me for ? He’s not concerned with us.”
“It sounds to me as if he’s mightily concerned with something,” muttered Algy, glancing at the flimsy fabric of the tent as the roaring and snarling went on in a sort of mounting frenzy.
“He’s only concerned with the same thing as I am, and that is some breakfast. How about it?”
“Do you mean all that fuss is because he’s looking for food?”
“No. The fuss is because he
’s found it, and by now he’s wishing he hadn’t—the silly fool.”
“What has he found—an elephant?”
“No. A porcupine, and believe you me he’s wishing he’d taken on something easier. Even though it’s his favourite dish I’ve never been able to understand why a tiger knocks his pan out and ruins his temper by fooling with a porcupine.”
“Are you asking me to believe that a thing like a porcupine has a hope against a tiger?” asked Ginger, incredulously.
“Please yourself, but you can take it from me that old Porky can put up a pretty good show. I’d lay my money on him every time. All the same, it’s a pity this had to happen just outside our front door.”
“Why?”
“Because by the time Mr. Stripes throws in the sponge he’ll be in such a foul temper that he’s likely to have a crack at anything he sees moving, and that may be me or you.”
“I don’t get it,” growled Ginger.
“All right. If you’ll quit stalling and pass me a mug of tea I’ll try to explain. As I’ve said, if there’s one thing that makes a tiger smack his lips it’s the thought of some succulent porcupine chops. There are plenty of porcupines about, but unfortunately for him they’re not so easy to get on the plate.”
“I don’t see why.”
“You will if you ever try it yourself. You see, a full grown porky is very well equipped in the matter of armament. He’s as well protected as a tank. On his back and tail—quite a heavy tail, by the way—he sports about fifteen hundred quills, black with white tips, each one having a nasty little barb on it.”
“I know. I’ve used ‘em as floats, for fishing.”
“Usually, the first thing that happens when the tiger makes his pounce, he’s pulled up short by a smack in the face with a tail-piece loaded with little spears, some of which stick. That makes him holler—as you may have noticed. It puts him in such a passion that he goes completely round the bend and regardless of consequences fetches old Porky a swipe with a bunch of claws. All he gets for that is a fistful of quills, and from the row he kicks up they must hurt. You would think he’d now have the sense to stand back and do a spot of hard thinking. But no. He goes completely daft and tries using his teeth, which are capable of dealing with most things. But not old Porky. All he gets for that silly show of temper is a mouthful of barbs, so that by this time he’s beginning to look as much like a pincushion as old Porky himself. Sometimes the porcupine gets away with it, sometimes he doesn’t; but whichever way the argument ends one thing is certain; the tiger may get his chops, but he has to pay such a price for ‘em that he must wish he’d gone in for fish and chips instead.”
“What does he do about the quills he’s collected?”
“No doubt he manages to get most of ‘em out; but not all; there may be some stuck in places he can’t get at. If they turn septic, as they may, he’s in a proper mess, limping about unable to get a bite of anything, every step a groan. Imagine how you’d feel if you had to hunt for your dinner with a row of fish-hooks in the soles of your feet and no hands to get ‘em out.”
“All right. I don’t see any need to burst into tears about it,” remarked Algy, coldly. “Whose fault is it, anyway?”
Biggles ignored the interruption. “Hopping mad with pain and hunger, that’s when he becomes really dangerous, ready to have a crack at anything. Some old hunters believe this is one of the reasons why a tiger turns man-eater, which in the ordinary way he isn’t. He prefers to keep clear of men. But when he can’t get anything else, noticing maybe that a native doesn’t have quills, he grabs him, or her, as the case may be. Finding the meat soft and juicy and easy to come by he comes back for more, and if something isn’t done to stop him he may wipe out a whole village. Anyhow, now you know what was going on outside. On this occasion I fancy Porky won the round.”
The noise outside had subsided to deep-throated growls.
“I’d say that’s him trying to get the thorns out of his pads,” went on Biggles. “Had he killed the porky he’d be purring like the cat he is.”
“It won’t be very comfortable here with that devil on the prowl,” said Ginger.
“I shall soon know if he’s about.”
“How?”
“My nose will tell me. Like most carnivora a tiger stinks. Down wind you can smell him quite a way off.”
“How does the tiger get on with the elephant?” Bertie wanted to know. “Old Jumbo should keep him going for a bit.”
“You mean the wild elephants that live in the forest?”
“Yes.”
“For the most part they seem to regard each other with respect. The wild elephant is afraid of only two things; men and fire. Unless he happens to be a rogue he’ll run from either. When he’s moving away from a man he’s like a shadow flitting through the trees, and he makes no more noise than one. Which is something you couldn’t do. How he does it is a mystery. Of course, he makes plenty of noise when he’s feeding, pulling down branches and even small trees. But never mind about tigers and elephants. We’ve a job to do, and we’d better see about getting on with it.”
* * *
Now let us turn the calendar back a month to learn what this job was, and why the Air Police Gadfly amphibian was moored on a remote lake on the northeast frontier of India.
CHAPTER II
“TELL me, Bigglesworth, where were you born?” Air Commodore Raymond, head of the Special Air Police at Scotland Yard, put the question to his senior operational pilot who, at his request, had just entered his office.
“That’s a bit unexpected,” answered Biggles, pulling up a chair to the near side of his chief’s desk. “India. I thought you knew that.”
“Yes, of course I knew. I should have been more explicit. Where exactly in India?”
Biggles smiled faintly. “I first opened my peepers in the dak bungalow at Chini, in Garhwal, in the northern district of the United Provinces.”
“How did that come about?”
“My father had left the army and entered the Indian Civil Service. He was for a time Assistant Commissioner at Garhwal and with my mother was on a routine visit to Chini when, as I learned later, I arrived somewhat prematurely. However, just having been whitewashed inside and out, the bungalow was nice and clean, and I managed to survive.”
“How long were you there?”
“In the United Provinces? About twelve years. Then, as I was getting recurring bouts of fever I was sent home to give my blood a chance to thicken. I lived with an uncle, who had a place in Norfolk.”
“Do you remember anything of Garhwal?”
“One doesn’t forget the place where one spent the first twelve years of one’s life.”
“Did you like it there?”
“I loved every moment of it. After all, what more could a boy ask for? Elephants to ride on, peacocks in the trees and rivers stiff with fish.”
“You never went back?”
“I didn’t get a chance. I was at school when the first war started, and by the time it was over my people were dead.”
“You remember the country pretty well?”
“If it hasn’t changed, and I don’t suppose it has. When I say I know it I mean as well as any white boy could know it—that is, the tracks from one place to another. I doubt if anyone could get to know the jungle itself. The bharbar, as they call it, the forest jungle that covers the whole of the lower slopes of the eastern Himalayas, is pretty solid, and I reckon it’ll be the last place on earth to be tamed.”
“You did some hunting, I believe.”
“Yes. My father believed in boys making an early start. I used to go out with him and an old shikari who taught me tracking, and so on.”
“Ever get a tiger?”
“No, but one nearly got me.”
“It must have been a dangerous place for a boy.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a matter of familiarity. Here, people are killed on the roads every day but that doesn’t keep us at home. The first thin
g the Italians, who live on the slopes of Vesuvius, do, every morning, is glance up at the volcano to see if it looks like blowing its top. The first thing I did when I got out of bed was turn my mosquito boots upside down to make sure a krait1 hadn’t roosted in one of ‘em. Thousands of Indians are killed every year by snakes but that doesn’t make people afraid to go out. As a matter of fact a twelve-foot hamadryad2 lived in our garden. He didn’t worry us so we left him alone because he kept down the rats and ate any other snake that trespassed on his preserves. Here you get used to traffic; there you get used to snakes, tigers, bears and panthers, if you leave the beaten track. If I was scared of anything it was the Bhotiyas—not the tribesmen themselves, but their dogs. The men come down the mountains with sheep and goats which they use as beasts of burden to carry loads of wool and borax. The dogs, enormous hounds like shaggy mastiffs, wearing spiked collars, are trained to protect the herds from bears and panthers, but they’re just as likely to go for you. No. Malaria, the sort called jungle fever, is the real danger. Sooner or later it gets you. It got me.”
“Do you remember the language?”
“Probably. I had friends among the Garhwalis and Kumoan hillmen so I picked up quite a bit of their lingo. I can still speak Hindi and Urdu although it’s some time since I had occasion to use either.” Biggles’ eyes suddenly clouded with suspicion. “Here. Wait a minute. What’s all this about.”
“I was wondering if you’d care to go back.”
“You mean—for a holiday?”
“Well—er—not exactly.”
Biggles nodded. “So that’s it. I should have guessed there was a trick in it. Before we go any further how about explaining this sudden interest in India?”
“I’m coining to that. I was just sounding you out to find out how much you knew about the country. We’ve just learned that a very good friend of ours is somewhere in the jungle of Garhwal, sick, and we’d like to have him brought here.”
“Presumably by me?”
“Of course.”
“Where exactly is he?”
“I don’t know.”
