by W E Johns
‘How about Marabina?’ suggested Algy.
‘I was just looking at it; it ought to suit us admirably; in fact, I don’t think we could do better,’ replied Biggles.
‘Marabina? That’s a new one on me,’ declared Ginger.
‘I’ve never heard of the place, either,’ confessed Dick, who, with the others, was leaning over Biggles’s shoulder looking at the atlas.
‘It’s the capital of one of those funny little countries in Central America, tucked in between Costa Rica and Honduras,’ Biggles told him as he closed the book. It’s on the Pan-American air route to South America, so we ought to have no difficulty in getting petrol there. I expect it’s a marine airport; most of them are along that stretch, which means that we shall need a marine aircraft.’
‘You mean a seaplane?’ asked Dick.
‘A flying-boat, probably, or possibly an amphibian,’ returned Biggles. ‘An amphibian can come down on either land or water. It would be useful to be able to land on a beach, should we find it necessary,’ he went on. ‘We’ll see what we can pick up in America. I’ve no intention of trying to fly the Atlantic, and I don’t think there is any point in going to the expense of shipping a machine across from England. But there, we can settle these details later on. We’ll spend the day tomorrow going into the whole thing. Meanwhile, I think it would be a sound scheme if we went out and had a bite of dinner.’
‘I was just thinking the same thing,’ agreed Algy.
They all got up as Mrs Symes, Biggles’s old housekeeper, appeared in the doorway. She turned a reproachful eye on the party. ‘How many times have I got to tell you boys to wipe your feet on the front door mat when you come in?’ she scolded, half jokingly, half angrily.
Biggles looked up in surprise. ‘But we did, Mrs Symes,’ he protested. ‘I certainly did. We’ve been in a couple of hours or more, anyway.’
‘Well, there now. I wonder who could have made such a mess,’ went on the housekeeper. ‘One of those young rascals of errand boys, I’ll warrant.’
A suspicious look came suddenly into Biggles’s eyes. Getting up rather quickly, he walked over to where she was standing and stared down at a number of muddy footmarks on the landing close to the door. In one place there was quite a pool of water. ‘It’s still raining, isn’t it?’ he said quietly.
‘It’s coming down cats and dogs,’ declared the housekeeper.
‘Humph! That’s queer.’ Biggles lit a cigarette and then looked back at the floor. ‘Sorry we made this mess, Mrs Symes,’ he said slowly. ‘You’d better clean it up. I’ll try not to let it happen again.’
Algy looked at him askance as Mrs Symes went through to her kitchen. ‘What’s on your mind?’ he inquired shrewdly.
‘Somebody has been standing outside this door – for some time, too, by the look of it,’ murmured Biggles. ‘Why do people stand outside doors when other people are inside, talking? Anyone know?’
‘To listen to what’s being said,’ declared Dick promptly.
Biggles nodded sagely. ‘That’s the answer, Dick. Further, I rather fancy that whoever stood here was wearing oilskins. An ordinary woollen overcoat absorbs water; the outside garment our eavesdropping friend was wearing shot it off on the floor, as you can see. What sort of people wear oilskins besides policemen and postmen, neither of whom are given to keyhole-peeping – not on honest citizens, anyway?’
‘Sailors.’
‘Right again,’ murmured Biggles approvingly.
Dick started as he understood what Biggles was driving at. ‘You mean – you think – Deutch followed us here?’
Biggles tapped the ash off his cigarette. ‘Come to think of it, there was no reason why he couldn’t, if he decided to, was there?’ he said quietly. ‘You’d better keep close to us, Dick, or we may lose you, and London is a mighty big place to start looking for a small boy with a doubloon in his pocket.’
* A special cheap ticket for people travelling before a certain hour in the morning by bus or train.
* On the island of Trinidad.
Chapter 5
Unexpected Difficulties
From five thousand feet Biggles looked down through his windscreen over rolling leagues of sapphire sea, unmarked by a ripple except at the edge, where, in a long line of creamy turquoise, tiny waves lapped idly at the coral strand that meandered mile after mile ahead until at last it lost itself in the purple distance. Beyond it, to the right as the aeroplane flew, stretched the jungle, a vague, monotonous blanket of sombre green that rolled away, fold after fold, to the mysterious shadows of the far horizon.
Beside him, in the second pilot’s seat, sat Algy, also gazing ahead, while behind, side by side in the cabin, Ginger and Dick regarded the unchanging scene with the bored disinterest that comes from familiarity.
Nearly a month had elapsed since the discussion in Biggles’s rooms. For Dick it had been a period of eager anticipation and delight; for the others, hard work and preparation. It had taken them a fortnight to clear up their affairs and make the necessary arrangements in London, which had included the acquisition of the necessary passports, visas, and carnets.*
Nearly a week had been spent crossing the Atlantic, and then several more days of bustle and anxiety in the United States while Biggles sought an aircraft suitable for their purpose.
In the end he had selected a Sikorsky amphibian, four-seater, twin-engined monoplane with a large luggage compartment, and with this he professed himself satisfied. And so far his opinion had been justified, for the machine had not given them a moment’s anxiety since they had taken off, four days previously, on their long run southward, progress being facilitated by the officials of Pan-American Airways – the Imperial Airways of America – whose far-flung system they had obtained permission to use. The only piece of additional equipment they had acquired was a collapsible rubber boat, which Biggles had insisted on taking in case of an emergency landing.
As far as Dick was concerned, four long days in the air had removed all novelty from that mode of travel, and he was looking forward to the time when he would be able to stretch his legs in a sandy cove similar to those they had so often passed, and bathe in the warm, limpid waters of the tropic sea. He knew that according to Biggles’s calculations they might reach their objective at any time now, so he was not surprised when presently the roar of the engine died away and the nose of the machine tilted downward. By craning his neck he could just see a large cluster of white, flat-roofed houses, which he knew from the shape of the harbour they skirted was their destination. He caught Ginger’s eye and grinned, ‘We’re there!’ he called cheerfully.
Ginger smiled back, nodding. ‘Looks like Marabina,’ he said, for after some discussion they had finally settled on their original choice as a base from which to work.
‘I wonder what sort of a place it is?’
Ginger shrugged his shoulders. ‘Much like the other places we’ve stopped at, except that it is smaller. It’s nearer the Equator, so it will certainly be hotter,’ he concluded, as the boat-like hull of the amphibian cut a white line of foam across the placid surface of the bay that formed the harbour.
The machine came to rest, rocking gently on an invisible swell. Biggles stood up and folded back the glass cockpit cover. That must be Pan-American’s moorings, over there,’ he said, pointing to a slipway and a wide-mouthed hangar at the water’s edge, near which a flying-boat was riding at anchor. They told me in New York that this was one of the depots where they keep a spare machine for emergencies. We’ll go over there, I think, and tie up by the slipway.’
He was about to sit down again in order to put the plan into execution when a small motor-boat put off from the quay farther down and came chugging towards them; an official in a gaudy but sadly dilapidated uniform stood in the bows, holding up his right hand.
‘I think that chap is signalling to us, isn’t he?’ said Algy dubiously, with his eyes on the boat.
‘I believe he is,’ replied Biggles standing up agai
n. ‘Yes; it’s us he’s after. I suppose he’s coming to have a look at our papers. What’s all the hurry, I wonder?’
The boat pulled up alongside the amphibian, the official, a pompous-looking little man, making dramatic signals to the airmen, at the same time firing out a stream of words.
‘No comprendo,*’ said Biggles, who knew a little Spanish, but not enough to keep pace with the present situation.
‘I think he means that we are to go with him,’ ventured Algy, who was trying to follow the signals.
Biggles pointed towards the tumble-down landing-stage from whence the boat had appeared, at the same time raising his eyebrows questioningly.
‘Si, si,*’ called the official peremptorily.
‘That’s it,’ observed Biggles quietly. ‘Pity about that. I’d rather have gone over to the Pan-American people, but apparently we shall have to leave that until later. We had better go with this fellow or we may get into trouble. The smaller the place the bigger idea the officials have of their importance; at least, that’s my experience.’
While they had been speaking Biggles had opened the throttle slightly, and had followed the boat to the landing-place where the usual small crowd of loungers were watching the proceedings from behind half a dozen rifle-armed policeman, or soldiers; they might have been either.
‘Something tells me that I am not going to like this place,’ observed Biggles drily, as he switched off the engine and threw a quick glance at the policemen.
‘Why not?’ asked Algy sharply, as he made the amphibian fast by the bows.
‘I don’t know, but there is something in the attitude of those fellows with the rifles that warns me that we shall have to be careful,’ answered Biggles. ‘I can feel a sort of hostility in the air.’
‘Our papers are all in order, so I don’t see that we have anything to worry about,’ put in Ginger carelessly.
‘You might, if you knew as much about these people as I do,’ Biggles told him shortly. ‘The predatory instincts of their forefathers, the Brethren of the Coast, still breaks out at the slightest excuse. But there, we shall see,’ he concluded moodily as he collected all the papers they would be likely to require and prepared to step ashore.
‘Hadn’t somebody better stay here to look after the boat?’ inquired Ginger. ‘We don’t want to get our stuff pinched.’
‘They’ll want us all ashore for Customs regulations and passport examination,’ replied Biggles. ‘Come on; you have to take chances and hope for the best in this part of the world. The gentleman in the natty uniform is getting impatient.’
Slowly, for the sun was blazing down fiercely on the exposed wharf, they followed the officer up a flight of ramshackle stairs, and then across a badly kept road to a flight of steps that led upwards towards a stone building standing on a knoll overlooking the harbour.
‘Where the dickins is he taking us, I wonder?’ muttered Biggles anxiously, eyeing the building towards which they were advancing with disfavour.
‘It looks to me more like a prison than anything else,’ suggested Algy.
‘I was thinking the same thing,’ declared Biggles. ‘Customs offices are usually on the waterfront, for obvious reasons.’
Still, the official in whose charge they were, approached the building, so they could do nothing but follow, and in a few minutes they were guided through a beautifully carved doorway, evidently a relic of the old colonial days, into a well-furnished office, where a swarthy, cadaverous-looking man, with two armed policemen in attendance, awaited them.
Biggles raised his solar topee courteously. ‘Buenos diaz, señor*’ he greeted pleasantly.
The other returned the greeting, rather coldly, and held out a dirty hand for the documents Biggles tendered. He gave the four travellers a long, searching scrutiny, and then, with irritating slowness, turned over the pages of their passports.
‘Do you speak English?’ Biggles asked him, quite nicely.
The man at the desk took no notice.
Biggles glanced at the others. ‘In a case like this the great thing is to keep one’s temper,’ he said, sotto voce. ‘I have an increasing suspicion that this fellow is going to be awkward.’
Slowly the minutes ticked by. Algy yawned. Ginger began to fidget. Biggles stood quite still, waiting, knowing only too well the folly of trying to hurry matters.
At last the man at the desk looked up and said something sharply in Spanish.
‘What did he say?’ asked Algy.
‘I’m not sure, but I believe he’s telling us that there is something wrong with our papers,’ answered Biggles, walking nearer to the desk.
Thereafter followed a long conversation, the official, regardless of Biggles’s halting Spanish, pouring out a stream of words every time he spoke. At length Biggles shrugged his shoulders helplessly and turned to the others. ‘As far as I can make out, he says there should be another paper which we haven’t got.’
‘What are we going to do about it?’ asked Algy.
The question was soon answered. The official said something to Biggles, and then gave an order to the two policemen, who turned towards the door.
‘He says it will be quite all right, but we shall have to wait,’ explained Biggles. ‘Meanwhile we’re to go with these fellows. Come on, it’s no use kicking; resistance will only make matters worse.’
They all trooped out behind the policemen and followed them up a flight of stairs to a white-washed room, unfurnished except for three or four wooden forms that stood against the walls. The door was closed; a key grated in the lock and they found themselves alone.
Algy looked at Biggles questioningly. ‘What’s the big idea, do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Biggles slowly. ‘I can’t quite make out what’s going on. I’m prepared to swear that our papers are in order, and that the hatchet-faced gentleman downstairs knows it, but he’s got some reason for holding us up. I can tell it by his manner. Maybe he’s just looking for an excuse to charge us with some technical offence as a ready means of making us pay a fine which will probably go into his pocket. If that’s the case, the sooner he says so the better. It’s usually a matter of money. Half these fellows live on graft – not that one can altogether blame them, because it’s their only source of income.’
‘I’d see him to the dickens before I’d stand for being blackmailed,’ protested Ginger indignantly.
Biggles smiled sadly. ‘In these little tinpot states, particularly in Central and South America, the best policy is to pay up and look pleasant,’ he said evenly. ‘Otherwise it only costs you more in the end, to say nothing of the delay. Still, I must say I don’t like the idea of being locked in, or of that window over there being barred.’
They all sat down to pass the time as well as they could. The room was like an oven in spite of the open, iron-barred window, overlooking the harbour, from which they could clearly see the amphibian, less than a quarter of a mile away.
‘What about asking to see the British Consul?’ suggested Algy. ‘There should be one here, I imagine.’
‘There will be a Vice-Consul, anyway,’ replied Biggles, ‘but I don’t think it would be wise to mention him at this stage. We don’t want to put their backs up. If the worst comes to the worst we shall have to do that, of course.’
An hour passed slowly, another, and another. The sun began to sink behind the jungle-clad hills. A little cloud of mosquitoes appeared and circled slowly in the centre of the room.
Algy suddenly jumped up from the form on which he had been lying. ‘Dash this for a joke,’ he snorted wrathfully. ‘I’ve had about as much as I’m going to stand. Anyone would think that we were a bunch of crooks instead of bona-fide travellers. Come on, Biggles, let’s raise a stink.’
Biggles got slowly to his feet. ‘Yes, I’ve had about enough of it myself,’ he admitted, strolling over to the window. As he looked out the others saw his manner change. His body stiffened. ‘What the devil’s going on down there?’ he cried, point
ing towards the amphibian, about which a number of police were standing. One had just emerged from the cabin carrying a bundle. ‘Of course, it may only be the Customs people doing their job,’ he went on, ‘but I don’t like the idea of people prowling about our machine when we’re not there. I’m going to demand an explanation.’
He walked quickly towards the door, but before he reached it, it was opened from the far side, and no fewer than six policemen entered. With them were the two officials, the one who had met them in the boat, and the other who had examined their passports.
‘What is the meaning of all this?’ demanded Biggles harshly.
A policeman laid his hand on Algy’s arm, but he shook it off angrily.
‘All right, take it easy, Algy,’ Biggles told him quickly. ‘It’s no use starting a rough house; we shall only come off worse in the end.’
The passport officer came forward. His manner when he spoke to Biggles was polite, almost obsequious.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Algy, controlling his temper by an effort.
Biggles shook his head helplessly. ‘This fellow says that an American aeroplane has been stolen, and as we may have taken it we must submit to being searched.’
‘I’ll see them frizzling in Hades first,’ choked Algy passionately. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing in my life. Why don’t you demand to see the Consul?’
‘I have.’
‘What did they say?’
‘He isn’t here. He has had the fever, and has gone up to the mountains for a change of air.’
Algy swallowed hard. ‘I believe the whole thing is a racket,’ he grated through set teeth.
Biggles smiled wanly. ‘Of course it is,’ he agreed. ‘The point is, what can we do about it? We can kick up a row when we get back home, but that doesn’t help us now, does it? I hate the idea of being searched as much as you do, but, frankly, I don’t see that we are in any condition to prevent it. If once we give them an excuse to clap us into jail, we might languish here for months.’
