Biggles Of The Special Air Police

by W E Johns

  Biggles was lighting a candle. He looked up, smiling. “What’s the matter? Is the lion after you?”

  “No, but I saw a light.”

  Biggles stopped what he was doing. “A light? Where?”

  Ginger indicated the direction.

  “That must be Periera,” said Biggles slowly. “No native would be out at night—here, of all places. What’s Periera doing, anyway? He’s half afraid the lion is really a spook. According to Kirby, his nerve had pretty well gone, and he was talking of moving somewhere else. Why should the light go out, I wonder?”

  “It went out as soon as I stepped clear of the village,” volunteered Ginger. “It was as if someone was coming this way, but, seeing my light, switched off and turned back.”

  “I should have thought it was all the more reason for coming on,” said Biggles pensively. “I mean, if it was Periera, it hardly looks as if he’s nervous, does it? Of course, there’s a chance it may have been someone else. No matter. I’m going to turn in. I want to be on the move early in the morning.”

  III

  Some time during the night Ginger woke up. This was so unusual that he thought some sound or movement must have been responsible, although he had no recollection of any such thing. He sat up and looked around. Brilliant moonlight streaming through the open windows revealed the others asleep in their beds. Their easy breathing was the only sound that broke the sullen brooding silence of the African night.

  Satisfied that all was well, he turned over to resume his rest; but hardly had he done so than a most singular noise brought him again to the alert. It was as if someone had indulged in a mighty yawn. His nerves tingled, as he listened. It was not repeated. He stared at the window, for it was, he thought, from that direction that the sound had come. Getting out of bed, quietly, so as not to disturh the others, he tiptoed across and looked out.

  At the sight that met his gaze he ceased to breathe. It might almost be said that he ceased to live. At any rate, his limbs refused to function. The only sense that remained operative was sight, and even this was not entirely under control. It remained fixed; fixed on an object more frightful than anything a nightmare imagination could have conjured up. Before him, not ten yards away, was the face of a lion. The beast was looking at him. It appeared to be lying down; and as it was facing him he could see no other part of its body. It was no ordinary lion. Reflected moonlight gleamed yellow in unwinking eyes. Around them rippled a weird, blue-white glow.

  How long Ginger stood staring at this nerve-shaking spectacle he did not know. It may have been seconds, or minutes. Then it was the lion that broke the spell. There was nothing hostile about its behaviour. It merely opened its mouth wide in a lazy yawn.

  Then, without any fuss, it got up and walked away, revealing as it did so a grey-white body.

  Ginger’s reaction would not have qualified him for a decoration. He staggered back into the room, crying incoherently: “Look out! It’s here! It’s here!” Then he seemed to come to himself, and, remembering the rifles, made a rush for one. Snatching the nearest, he thrust a cartridge into the breath and dashed back to the window, nearly knocking Bertie over on the way for by this time everyone was out of bed, wanting to know what was happening. Biggles switched on a torch. By then, Ginger was leaning out of the window looking for the lion. Not a sign of it could be seen. But he heard a sound in the distance—or he thought he heard a sound—as strange as the one that had brought him out of bed. It was as if someone had blown several short blasts on a whistle. Later, on being questioned, he admitted that he was not quite certain of this because of the noise going on in the room behind him.

  Biggles’ voice, brittle with annoyance, quelled the tumult. He strode over to Ginger. “What the deuce do you think you’re playing at?” he demanded with asperity.

  “Playing!” Ginger’s voice was shrill with indignation. “I like that! I’m not playing. It was the lion. I saw it.”

  “Where?”

  “Just outside the window. It was there a couple of minutes ago. It was awful.”

  Biggles looked at him suspiciously. “Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”

  “Dreaming, my foot! The thing stood there staring me in the eyes.”

  “Give me that rifle.” Biggles snatched it, opened the door and ran outside. The others, grabbing weapons, followed. There was nothing there.

  They walked round the bungalow.

  They stared in every direction, but not a movement could be seen or heard.

  “It must have gone,” said Ginger lamely.

  Biggles led the way back to the bungalow, lit the candle, and requested Ginger, somewhat curtly, to relate exactly what he had seen—or thought he had seen.

  Ginger obliged. “Don’t let’s have any argument about it,” he concluded coldly. “It was there all right. I not only saw it; I heard it. And I’ll tell you something else,” he went on, remembering the last sound he had heard. “There was somebody out there, too. I heard a sort of whistle. It was a long way off, though.”

  “Zebras,” suggested Bertie.

  “Nothing of the sort,” retorted Ginger. “I’ve heard a startled zebra whistle. What I heard was nothing like that.”

  Biggles replaced his rifle on the table. “Okay,” he said quietly. “We’ll take your word for it that the beast is here. I suppose I should have mounted a guard, but it seemed unnecessary. The last thing I expected was that the lion would come here to call on us. There’s nothing we can do until it gets light. Then we shall know the truth of the matter. If a lion was prowling about outside there should be marks—” He broke off, in a tense attitude, listening.

  From outside came a sound of madly galloping hoofs.

  There was a rush for the door. From the verandah it was possible in the moonlight to see a small herd of cattle tearing across the plain. But the cause of the stampede was not in sight.

  “I can’t think of anything but a lion that would cause those animals to panic,” averred Biggles. “All the same, that isn’t to say that the lion was a white one.”

  “If it was the lion I saw, it was white,” declared Ginger obstinately. “And I don’t care if I never see it again,” he added frostily.

  “I don’t suppose it’ll put in another appearance tonight, so we may as well go back to bed and get some sleep,” were Biggles’ last words on the matter.

  Ginger noticed that he did not, in fact, go back to bed. When he himself fell asleep Biggles was still sitting on the edge of his bed, elbow on his knee, chin in hand, deep in thought. Over him curled a thread of cigarette smoke.

  The dawn of a fine day found everyone on the move. An examination of the ground outside the bungalow yielded nothing of interest, except that at the place where Ginger had first seen the lion the grass was pressed flat as if by a heavy body. This, Ginger claimed, confirmed his story. The ground, being hard and dry, showed no footprints—or, at any rate, none that a European could follow. Biggles said little, hut Ginger knew from his manner that he had decided on a course of action.

  As soon as hreakfast was finished, Biggles announced his plan. “I don’t think it’s the slightest use our walking about on the off-chance of coming upon the lion,” he said. “No one has seen the animal properly in daylight, so I don’t see why we should expect to. You may ask, why has no one seen the beast; for, after all, lions don’t go to ground like rabbits, and here there are no rocks or heavy timber that might provide cover.”

  “Do you know the answer to that question?” asked Algy

  “No,” answered Biggles shortly. “I’m going over to ask this fellow Periera if he does.”

  “Have you reason to suppose that he might know?” inquired Bertie.

  “Someone knows,” asserted Biggles meaningly. “As Periera is the only white man within fifty miles of us, we’ll try him first.”

  The others looked at Biggles, sensing something behind the words.

  “Are you suggesting that this fellow Periera may know more about this busines
s than he pretends?” asked Algy.

  “As I’ve already said, someone does, and he may be the man. There’s something about his behaviour that doesn’t ring true.”

  “But what could he gain by playing up this story of a white lion?” questioned Ginger, mildly astonished.

  “Money,” answered Biggles. “When I’m asked to investigate a case, I’ve got into the habit of asking myself: Who stands to make money out of it?”

  “But how could he make money—?”

  “Wait a minute,” interrupted Biggles. “Put it this way. As the Government’s stock-raising scheme has failed, I started with the theory that someone may have wanted it to fail. It has failed—so far. Why? Because a lion arrives on the scene. That was bad luck for the promoters of the scheme. Conversely, it was a wonderful stroke of good luck for the people who stood to lose money should the scheme succeed. Anyhow, that’s how it struck me at first glance. In my opinion, such good luck was too good to be true. White lions are not exactly common. In short, it seemed to me that there was no luck about it. This white lion business was deliberately engineered. Very well. Who stood to lose money should the scheme succeed? We needn’t look far for the answer. Obviously, the stockbreeders on the other side of the Atlantic, whose meat we bought in the past, but whose meat we should no longer buy. I kept an open mind until I got here; but in view of what happened last night I’m no longer in doubt about a lion, a real lion, being here. Ginger saw it. We’re asked to believe that such an animal exists in nature, and that it came here at this particular moment by accident. Forget it. I’ll stake a month’s pay that that lion’s phony. The whole thing’s phony. That will give you an idea of the lines I’m thinking on. Somebody is pulling a clever trick and he can’t be far away. Officially there’s only one man in this locality, apart from ourselves. I’m going to call on him. Let’s get cracking.”

  “Are we all going?” asked Ginger.

  “Yes. But we won’t march in a body to the front door —in case he’s the man we’re looking for. Algy and Bertie will call on our naturalist neighbour and keep him engaged in conversation while Ginger and I have a look round his back yard. As he lives at an old mine, the buildings may be extensive. All right. Let’s go. Bring your guns. We may meet the lion—you never know.”

  A walk of rather more than an hour brought the objective into view. There was no mistaking it, for conspicuous was a great heap of slag. Near it sprawled several low buildings, and, a short distance away, a small native village of the usual beehive-shaped huts. After studying the place through his binoculars Biggles said everything appeared to he more or less derelict, although that was only to be expected. He could see no one. There was no smoke over the village.

  The party now split, Algy and Berrie walking straight on towards the mine, and Biggles, with Ginger, striking off to the right, on a detour through some low-lying ground which Biggles thought would bring them to the rear of the buildings without being seen by anyone there. This hope was fulfilled; but just before the actual buildings were reached some hyenas, slinking away from an object, caused Biggles to alter his course towards it.

  The object turned out to be a hide—or the remains of one—and the entrails of an animal, presumably the one to which the hide had belonged. Enough of this remained to show that the unlucky beast had been a calf of the imported breed.

  Biggles looked at the mess, then glanced at Ginger.

  “Queer that a lion should make a kill so near a building,” remarked Ginger.

  “Still more queer that it should be able to skin, and cut up its prey, with a knife,” returned Biggles dryly. “You can see the knife-marks on the hide. If we hadn’t come along, in a few minutes the hyenas would have cleaned all this up. Nothing would have remained to show that a beast had been slaughtered. Mr. Periera has no right to kill British Government stock. Incidentally, he must have a big appetite. Come on.”

  They walked on, cautiously now, to the nearest buildings. They were of stone, of considerable age, although obviously the work of civilised men. Biggles tried the door they came to and threw a significant look at Ginger when he found it locked. However, the wood was rotten, and he had no difficulty in knocking a hole through it with the butt of his rifle. He looked in through the hole, then stepped back. “Take a look,” he told Ginger, in a curious voice.

  Ginger looked. There was only one object in the place. It was a large, stoutly-built cage. It was not on wheels, but was made portable by a handle at each corner. There was nothing in it. He stepped back. “Apparently Periera was hoping to catch the lion and take it home with him,” he observed.

  “If my guess is right, you’ve got it the wrong way round,” murmured Biggles. “That cage was used to bring the lion here.”

  While Ginger was digesting this illuminating remark they continued on to another building, one in better repair than most. Biggles stopped suddenly, sniffing. “Smell anything?” he inquired.

  Ginger sniffed. “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “A circus.”

  “Try again.”

  “Lion.”

  “Quite right.”

  In this case, too, the door was locked, but a small, barred window offered possibilities.

  While Biggles looked through it Ginger noted that the bars had been set recently, in cement.

  “Take a look and see if you recognise anything,” invited Biggles, stepping aside.

  Ginger looked and nearly went over backwards. Just inside was the animal he had seen from the bungalow window. It was sitting quietly, gazing at him, with a piece of meat between its forepaws. Its face still glowed, but not so brightly as it had in the dark. Its body was chalk-white.

  Biggles smiled. “So now we know,” he said softly.

  Ginger’s eyes were wide open. “Then this naturalist—?”

  “Naturalist, my foot!” interposed Biggles. “I’d make a small bet that he’s a performing-lion exhibitor. Not that the poor old lion in there needs much taming. He’s too old to do his own hunting, and has to be fed. That’s why there are no kills ahout. He was probably born in captivity. He’s seen so many people in his time that he’s as docile as a housecat. Remember how he yawned in your face? Comes for his dinner when he’s whistled, like a good dog.”

  “Then the whole thing is a racket?”

  “Of course. I warned you that would be the probable answer. Its object was to scare the daylights out of the native cowboys; and it worked, too.”

  “But the colour?”

  “I imagine there wouldn’t be much difficulty in spraying a tame lion with a coat of paint and putting a few dabs of the new luminous ink on its face.” Biggles pointed to several splashes of whitewash on the ground near the walls of the huilding. “This is where the job was done. Let’s go in and hear what Mr. Periera has to say about it.”

  They found the pretended naturalist in animated conversation with Algy and Bertie. He was a dapper little man, with a keen, alert manner. Dark, flashing eyes lit up a swarthy, expressive face. Impressive, well-waxed “handlebar” moustaches decorated his upper lip. He was carelessly dressed and unshaven, but his general attitude was one of easy-going friendliness. His face fell, however, when two more visitors walked in. It fell still farther when Biggles, wasting no time, announced who he was and why he was there.

  At first the man was inclined to bluster, but Biggles cut him short. “The game’s up, Periera,” he said curtly. “I’ve just had a look at your menagerie. It may save you a lot of trouble if you tell us all about it.”

  The man threw out his hands, hunching his shoulders. “What do I do wrong?” he asked. “I break no laws. I bring my lion to Africa. Why not? He is so sad to be away from Africa.”

  “In Africa,” said Biggles coldly, “lions are not kept as pets. They’re shot. Ginger, go and shoot that one outside.”

  That did the trick. Periera sprang up in genuine consternation. He seemed to be about to burst into tears. “No! Ah, no!” he cried. “Marco is my only f
riend. For years he worked for me at the circus. He hurts no one. He do what I say. I put my head in his mouth. He will not bite. He is too old. He has no tooth, no claw.”

  The man turned pleading eyes on Biggles’ face, but he found little sympathy there. He slumped into his chair. “Okay,” he said in a resigned voice. “What d’you want to know? I tell.”

  The story told by the lion-tamer—for that was, in fact, his profession— was much as Biggles had surmised. He was working in South America, he said, when a man unknown to him had offered him a big sum of money to do what he had done. The surprising revelation was that he, Periera, complete with his lion in its cage, had been flown direct to Nagoma. The lion, too old and feeble to do his own hunting, had to be fed. At night, Periera explained, Marco was let loose for exercise, but always returned to be fed at the sound of the whistle. He was never let out in daylight, for fear he might he seen near the mine. There was also a risk of his being shot. That, really, was all there was to it. As Biggles remarked later, it was all very simple.

  Periera went on to say that his work was finished long ago. He had been engaged only for a month. Then the aircraft was to come and take him, and his lion, back home. That was three months ago. The plane had not come. His food was finished. He was stranded. He was in despair.

  “Those who deal with crooks must expect crooked deals,” Biggles told him. “The plane,” he declared, “will never come. Why should these people trouble to come and fetch you?” he asked.

  Periera stared. Apparently this aspect had not occurred to him.

  “You have done the mischief you were sent to do, so you could stay here till Doomsday for all they care,” went on Biggles bitingly. “It’s lucky for you we carne along. I can’t take you back to America, of course, but there are people in England who will be interested in your story. Behave yourself and do what you’re told and you may not have much to worry about.” Biggles turned to Algy. “You and Bertie can take him home. The Air-Commodore can decide what to do with him. I’ll stay here with Ginger for a bit.”