by W E Johns
The chief objects of interest were the two men — presumably the so-called ‘gents’ — who lounged, smoking pipes, by the companion-way. Both were of early middle age and dressed for the part; polo-necked jerseys, linen slacks and rope-soled canvas shoes. They took no notice of the spectators. Nor for that matter did spectators take much notice of them. The spectacle, such as it was, was commonplace.
‘Let’s see if we can find out anything about them,’ said Biggles, leading the way back to the wharf.
There was not much activity at this hour. Two men were moving some empty fish boxes into one of the wooden buildings behind. Others, who had brought their nets ashore, were talking as they cleaned them and made them into neat piles. An old greybeard wearing the usual fisherman’s kit sat alone on a bollard watching a scene he must have witnessed thousands of times.
Biggles stopped by him. ‘Nice day,’ he observed.
The old man agreed.
‘You must have seen a lot of changes,’ prompted Biggles, to open a conversation.
The old man, like most of his type, was willing to talk. ‘Yes,’ he grunted, ‘and none of ‘em for the better.’
‘Do you get many lobsters around here?’
‘A few, when the water’s right. Mostly small nowadays. They’ve been fished too hard. These youngsters keep ‘em all, large and small. So do some of the visitors, who don’t seem to realize they’re doing the local people out of their living. I’m always saying, if this goes on there soon won’t be any lobsters.’
Biggles changed the subject. Pointing, he asked ‘Is that what you call Bull Head?’
‘Yes, that’s Bull Head.’
‘I’d have thought that was a good place to pick up a few lobsters.’
‘No better than anywhere else. It’s a dangerous place.’
‘In what way?’
‘A lot o’ gulls nest there. Kids were always falling and breaking their bones trying to get to the eggs. Now the top has been fenced off and a notice put up telling people to keep clear. The caves are dangerous, too.’
‘Caves?’
‘Full o’ caves. The Head is a honeycomb. Some get flooded at high tide. People have got cut off and drowned there in my time, trying to find the old smugglers’ way through the Head. There’s always been a tale it’s possible to get right through the Head from one side to the other, but I’ve never heard of anyone doing it. This is the time o’ day people get trapped; low tide and on the turn. When she comes back she comes in too fast for people to get out.’
Again Biggles changed the subject. ‘What’s that old Dutch barge doing here?’
‘Just put in to lay off for a bit, I suppose. It’s been here for a week. Goes for a cruise when there’s a breeze. It was here last year about the same time. They’re good boats. They tell me more and more of ‘em are being fitted out as yachts.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Mr Trelawny. He’s one of the owners of Scamperer. His partner’s name is Pennington. Nice chaps. They’ve often had a word with me.’
‘Trelawny. That name is as Cornish as they make em.
‘Mr Trelawny — that’s him, with the fair hair — tells me his family lived near here. He was born here.’
‘Which means he knows all about the place.’
‘He talks like he does. Are you gentlemen staying here?’
‘We thought of it, if we can find a lodging.’
‘You’ll have a job. The place is packed out. Hardly room to move. That’s what it’s got like. I dunno what things are coming to. Still, there’s more money in this tourist business than ever there was in fishing.’
Biggles paused. ‘What are the chances of hiring a boat?’
‘No trouble about that.’
‘I can handle a boat, so I don’t need anyone with me. I’d like one with a motor.’
The old man pointed with the stem of his pipe. ‘There’s the Puffin just in. She’s had a party out fishing. A nice roomy little craft with a fixed engine. She ought to suit you. Go and speak to Harry Trevethin. That’s him, helping the people ashore.’
‘Thanks. I’ll go and see if I can get her.’
As Biggles walked along to the boat, which some obvious tourists were leaving, he said quietly to Ginger: ‘Slip back to the car and fetch the torch. It’s in the front panel — or should be.’
Ginger turned away.
Biggles spoke to the owner of the boat. ‘May I and my friends hire her for a trip?’
‘When do you want her?’
‘Now. The old chap sitting over there recommended her.’
‘How long do you want her for?’
‘An hour or two maybe. Say a run along the coast past Bull Head and back.’
The man glanced round the sky. ‘It’s getting a bit late.’ The sun was, in fact, well down. ‘Do you want me to go with you?’
‘No. We can manage. We’ve had plenty of experience with boats.’
‘I don’t like her being out after dark.’
‘We shan’t be late. You needn’t worry about us. There’s a full moon to make things easy if we’re not back by nightfall, although I expect we shall be.’
The man considered Biggles with speculative eyes. ‘You look all right.’
Biggles looked puzzled. ‘All right for what?’
‘Some youngsters nowadays think it’s smart to hire a boat and leave it miles away to get out of paying for it. Which also means I have to go and fetch it.’
‘If that’s the trouble I’ll pay in advance.’
‘Never mind. You look a responsible sort of chap. I reckon I can trust you. All right, then. I’ll go and have my supper. You’ll find me here when you get back.’
‘Is she all right for oil?’
‘Plenty. Get aboard. I’ll see you off.’
By this time Ginger had returned. They all took their places, Biggles at the tiller, as the boatman started the engine for them. He climbed back ashore and the boat chugged its way out of the harbour to the open sea. As it passed the Scamperer, still at its mooring, the two men who owned her were still on deck. Another man had joined them. Once out of the harbour, on the far side of the mole, only the mainmast, with the distinguishing pennant hanging limply at the peak, could be seen.
Said Bertie: ‘Would I be right in guessing that the purpose of this naval operation is to have a look at the caves of Bull Head?’
‘You would. That’s why I sent Ginger to fetch a torch. We wouldn’t have got far without one.’
‘You think we might find something there?’ put in Ginger.
‘It’s possible.’
‘Meaning the business of putting down lobster pots was a blind?’
‘Could be, particularly as that old salt hinted that lobstering was now really a waste of time. He said something else that made me wonder. Trelawny, one of the two men, was born in these parts; which means he must know all about Bull Head and its caves. There may be nothing to it, but the Scamperer’s trip this morning, half-way across the Channel to meet a boat from France, smells fishy to me — apart from lobsters. If nothing comes of it, well, a sniff of sea air won’t have done us any harm.’
The boat was now approaching the eastern face of Bull Head with the sun setting behind it. It was actually a blunt-nosed cliff about a hundred feet high projecting fifty or sixty yards into the sea. What the old man had said about gulls was confirmed. Hundreds could be seen on the ledges and others were drifting in from all directions presumably to roost for the night. A number of holes, mostly at water level, were apparently the caves to which the old man had referred.
The boat, with its steady phut-phut-phut, went on to the far side, revealing the width of the little promontory, a matter of perhaps no more than seventy to a hundred yards. Holes, where storm water had eaten into it, were frequent, some large, some small, no more than shallow depressions. There were one or two yawning caverns. On this side the cliff was not actually sheer; but it sloped back steeply and was no doubt the place where foolh
ardy boys had risked their limbs for gulls’ eggs. There was no beach. A landing could only be made on the rock.
‘The lobster pots haven’t been lifted yet, anyhow,’ remarked Ginger as, having rounded the frowning buttress of rock, the cork marker floats came into view.
There were six of them, more or less in line, at frequent intervals near the foot of a cliff pitted with holes, into some of which the rising tide was already lapping.
‘The question,’ said Biggles as he took the boat close in, ‘is how long the Scamperer is going to leave the pots here? I mean, how long will it be before it comes back for them? I’m thinking that if the men aboard are engaged in a racket of some sort, they must have had a shock when they returned to port and found Excise officers waiting for them. They must be wondering why. Anyway, that should be enough to warn them to be extra careful; that their activities are under suspicion. In which case surely they’ll think twice in future about taking contraband into Poltruan, if that’s what they’ve been doing.’
‘What beats me is why they dumped their cargo here, if in fact they did that,’ said Ginger. ‘It would almost seem as if they had an idea they might be checked when they got back to the harbour.’
‘I don’t see how that could happen unless an accomplice ashore spotted the Excise men, and guessing why they were there sent out a warning signal by radio. Or, of course, there’s just a chance they might have suspected that the aircraft waffling about near them was watching them.’
‘I kept a fair distance away,’ stated Ginger. ‘Still, I must admit they couldn’t fail to see me.’
Bertie changed the subject. ‘I say, old boy, exploring all these caves is going to be a long job.’
‘They’ll hardly need exploring. If the Scamperer landed anything here it shouldn’t be far away. Moreover, I think it’s safe to assume it would be in a cave above the high water mark, and there aren’t so many of those. Some are already flooding.’
‘We’d better keep clear of those,’ requested Ginger seriously. ‘Remember what the old man said about people getting trapped.’
‘I’ll watch it, don’t worry. Let’s get on. We’ve no time to lose. It’ll be dark inside an hour. The best way to work would be for me to put you off at different caves for a quick look round for signs of a recent visit. I’ll stay in the boat. I’m taking no chances of getting stranded here. We’ll start at this end. If either of you need the torch I’ll hand it over; but with the sun low on this side you should have enough light for as far as you’re likely to go in.’
Nothing more was said. The task began, in the manner Biggles had suggested.
Considering what they had to do, they covered the ground quickly. Most of the caves proved to be short. Some, however, ran deeply into the rock, farther than they felt inclined to go, and according to Biggles’ theory farther than it was necessary to go. He still maintained that if anything had been hidden in a cave it should be just inside; so why risk losing their way by going farther? The extent of one or two of the caves gave some support to the old tale that it was possible to go in one side of Bull Head and come out the other.
When at the end of half an hour all the caves had been investigated without result, they stood together at the entrance to a high, narrow, cleft in the rock, the last to be explored. Ginger, taking the torch, had been in for some distance, although not to the far end. Like most caves it was a gloomy, depressing place, the atmosphere heavy with the smell of debris thrown in by waves at high water — pebbles, shells, seaweed and rotting pieces of wood. At the moment the rising water was still two or three feet below the entrance to the cave.
‘It looks as if we’ve drawn blank,’ said Biggles, holding the boat with the boat-hook so that the others could get on board. ‘With the light going there isn’t much more we can do. I’m surprised. I would have bet on finding evidence of the Scamperer’s crew having been here. After all, why did they come here if not to put something ashore?’
‘Maybe they were serious about their lobster fishing,’ suggested Ginger moodily, nodding at the cork floats a few yards away. ‘I wonder if they’ve caught anything?’
‘Just a minute,’ answered Biggles with a sudden change of voice. ‘You’ve put a notion in my head.’ He tossed his cigarette end overboard and, using the boat-hook against the rock, pushed, so that the boat drifted out to the nearest float. ‘Let’s see if they have caught anything. Haul up the pot, Bertie.’
Bertie felt down for the rope and, hand over hand, pulled the basketwork trap to the surface. It was empty. He smiled bleakly. ‘Nothing doing,’ he said, and was about to drop the contrivance back into the sea when Biggles stopped him.
‘Hold hard! I’m not surprised there’s nothing in it. There’s no bait. I was under the impression that in order to induce the lobsters to commit suicide it was necessary to encourage them with a lump of meat, a dead fish, or something of that sort. There’s something fishy about this in more senses than one. Why put down a trap without a bait?’
The boat was moved a few yards and the operation was repeated.
‘There’s something here all right,’ declared Bertie, as he dragged up the trap. ‘Feels like a bally octopus.’ The basket came into sight. With some difficulty he lifted it inboard and dropped it with a thump.
Nobody spoke. All eyes were on the lobster pot.
The silence was broken by Biggles. ‘By thunder!’ he breathed. ‘We have made a catch. You realize what this is?’
Ginger answered. ‘Looks like a load of bricks.’
‘Bricks is right. Gold bricks. This must be the stuff stolen in France.’ Biggles moved with alacrity. ‘Quick,’ he said tersely. ‘This isn’t all of it. The rest must be in some of the others. Take the gold out and chuck the trap back overboard. Get cracking. If the Scamperer should roll up and catch us at this there’ll be hell to pay. I’ll handle the boat.’
In the fast failing daylight the activity in the boat was now intense. Ten minutes and the work was done. Two more pots contained gold bars. The others were empty — except for a small crab.
‘Okay. That must be the lot,’ snapped Biggles, when the ingots lay in a heap on the floor of the boat.
‘What are we going to do with it?’ asked Ginger. ‘We can’t take this into Poltruan without the owner of the boat seeing it, and that’s likely to cause a sensation.’
Biggles hesitated, staring at the gold. ‘You’re so right. When the men on the Scamperer heard about it, and that wouldn’t take long, they’d either bolt or disclaim all knowledge of it. Either way it would come to the same thing. We couldn’t prove they’d put it here. The gold isn’t enough. We want them in the bag, too.’
‘How are you going to manage that?’
‘Leave the stuff here and grab them when they come back for it. We’ll put it in the cave; bury it under some of the muck and nip back to Poltruan for help. There are at least three men in the gang. They may carry guns. If so, trying to arrest them with our bare hands in a place like this would be asking for trouble.’
‘We should have brought guns,’ said Bertie.
‘Never mind what we should have done. Who could have guessed things would turn out like this? Let’s get on shifting the stuff. The Scamperer may come round the Head at any moment.’
A quarter of an hour of feverish activity saw the gold thrown into a depression a little way inside the cave and there covered with seaweed and any other rubbish that came to hand. By the time the job was done the tide was within inches of the lip of the cave.
‘Now let’s get back to Poltruan,’ ordered Biggles, holding the boat close in.
Ginger raised a hand. ‘Listen. I can hear something.’
‘Water dripping.’
‘Sounds like voices.’
Biggles peered into the dusk towards the end of the cliff. ‘No one here.’
An instant later came a curious hollow echo. It was, without doubt, a human voice.
‘Here, I say, old boy,’ muttered Bertie in a low tense vo
ice. ‘The blighters are coming this way, through the cave from the far side.’
‘Trelawny, the man who was born here, should know the way,’ put in Ginger.
‘They must be coming for the gold,’ stated Biggles. ‘We’d better get out.’
This brief conversation had been carried on in a whisper. Meanwhile voices were coming nearer, making it evident there were at least two men. Ginger had moved to step into the boat when Biggles said sharply: ‘Wait! The Scamperer is just coming round the Head. I wondered how they intended getting to the pots without a boat. Looks like we’re the meat in a sandwich. This means trouble.’ He looked up the backward-sloping face of the cliff. ‘Ginger, do you think you could get that way to the top?’
‘I’ll have a shot at it.’
‘Then get going. Make for the road. Stop any car for a lift. Get to a phone and call the Yard. Explain the position. Say we need help, urgently. We’ll hang on as long as we can. Careful how you go.’
Without another word Ginger set off on his hazardous climb. A dim twilight still lingered.
Bertie joined Biggles in the boat just as two men appeared at the mouth of the cave. One was Trelawny. He carried a torch. The other was a stranger. Little could be seen of his face by reason of a dark beard. Both men wore polo-necked sweaters and gum boots. They had been talking in a casual way, but stopped abruptly when they saw the boat. They advanced slowly.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ asked Trelawny, in an astonished voice.
‘We’ve been admiring the sunset,’ returned Biggles evenly.
The other man spoke, apparently annoyed to find them there. ‘Thinking of buying it?’ he sneered.
‘Why, were you thinking of selling it?’
At this juncture the Scamperer came up. Nosing its way in, it stopped. There were two men on board, Pennington and another stranger. ‘What’s going on here?’ inquired Pennington curtly.
‘You tell me,’ invited Biggles, lighting a cigarette. ‘I had no idea the place was so popular.’
