by W E Johns
He came on into the room, smiling with his lips, but not with his eyes. They were as actively alert as those of a nervous sparrow. His companions followed him in. They, too, carried guns. He went on: ‘There’s no need for any trouble as long as no one does anything silly. Now, Tommy, where did you put it? Be a sensible lad. I’ve never hurt you, have I? Never laid a finger on you. Got fond of you like you was my own boy. I’ll see you get your cut.’ He paused, waiting for an answer.
Ginger contemplated the intruders. There was no mistaking Raulstein. He lined up with the description Tommy had given of him. Swarthy, black-haired and dark-eyed, with a suave, ingratiating manner, he was typical of many Levantines. Men do not always look what they are, but the other two might have stepped out of a Hollywood gangster film. Both were small, slim, pale, poker-faced cold-eyed, with tight-fitting over-smart clothes and florid neckties. One wore a felt hat with the brim snapped down in front; the other a peaked yachting cap.
Speaking to Tommy, Biggles said: ‘Don’t talk to them. Leave this to me.’
Raulstein’s dark eyes flashed to him. ‘And who might you be?’ he inquired.
‘You’ll find out.’
‘Tommy is one of us.’
‘He used to be. Not any more.’
‘What’s it got to do with you?’
‘Plenty.’
‘You’re a cool customer, talking to us that way.’
‘Who do you think you are, that I shouldn’t?’
Raulstein scowled. ‘You’d best mind your own business.’
‘This is my business.’
‘Who says so?’
‘I do.’
‘Smart, eh? Well, if you think of standing in for a cut, you’d best think again.’
‘There won’t be any cuts.’ Biggles spoke quietly, almost casually.
Raulstein stared, looking puzzled.
Looking at him, one of the Americans snapped: ‘Aw! that’s enough yapping. We’re wasting time. Let’s get on with it. Who are these guys?’
‘You’re likely to waste a lot more time yet,’ Biggles told him.
A thought seemed to strike Raulstein. He looked at Tommy. ‘You bin talking?’
‘I’ve told the police all I know, if that’s what you want to know,’ stated Tommy, boldly, but perhaps stupidly.
Or so it seemed; for a spasm of anger distorted Raulstein’s face and he raised his revolver as if he intended shooting Tommy on the spot. ‘Why, you dirty little rat,’ he rasped furiously. ‘I’ll —’
‘Calling him names, or shooting him, won’t get you anywhere,’ cut in Biggles. ‘As for you’ — he looked at the Americans — ‘I don’t know who you are, but if you’ll take my advice you’ll go back to where you came from, or you may find you’ve bitten off more than you can swallow.’
‘Meanin’ what?’ inquired the one with the yachting cap, eyeing Biggles through narrow slits.
‘Simply this. The police on both sides of the Atlantic know all about the business that brought you here. In Canada they’ve been alerted. Wherever you go you’ll find them waiting for you. Aside from that you must be crazy to suppose Raulstein here would stand you in for a cut even if you found the stuff, which isn’t likely. He’s already knocked off two men to keep them out. Why should you expect anything different?’
‘He’s lying,’ grated Raulstein.
‘What do I have to lie about?’ inquired Biggles coldly.
The American seemed not so sure. ‘You don’t happen to be a cop yourself, by any chance?’
‘You might call me that.’
‘From England?’
‘That’s right.’
‘That’s what I thought, the way you talk. And you brought this kid Tommy here?’
‘He brought us. Comes to the same thing.’
‘So he knows where the stuff is hid?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ broke in Raulstein. ‘He’s bluffin’. He’s here for the same reason we are. Tommy knows where the stuff is. He’s coming with us — aren’t you, Tommy? He’ll show us where the stuff is. He’s got his head screwed on right.’
Biggles shrugged and lit a cigarette. ‘I’m not in a position to prevent you from taking him with you by force; but mark my words, if any harm comes to him, I’ll see you pay for it.’
‘So you will, eh! We’ll see about that,’ sneered Raulstein. ‘Come on, Tommy.’ Tommy looked at Biggles appealingly. ‘You’d better go with them,’ advised Biggles, knowing it was bound to come to that in the end. ‘They’ll have more sense than to hurt you, knowing we’re here.’ Tommy got up. ‘Okay, if you say so.’
‘The rest of you slay here,’ warned Raulstein, viciously. ‘Anyone who tries to leave this hut will get what’s coming to him. I’m tellin’ you. Someone will be watching.’ The invaders left the hut, taking Tommy with them. As the door closed behind them, Bertie and Ginger looked at Biggles in surprise, almost with consternation. ‘You let them take him,’ accused Ginger incredulously.
‘What else could I do? To have tried to keep him here would have meant a gun battle, in which case we’d certainly have got the worst of it. Already holding us covered, they would probably have killed all of us once they started. We know Raulstein thinks nothing of murder. Anyway, stuck here as we are, we’re in no case to risk casualties. It seemed to me our best plan was to play for time. Now we can think. They still don’t know we have guns in our pockets.’
‘It seems to me that with Tommy in their hands they’re likely to get away with it,’ Ginger said gloomily.
‘Get away with what? They’re not likely to leave without what they came for and they’re still a long way from getting it.’
‘They’ll force Tommy to show them where he put the stuff.’
‘Okay, so they can start digging — if they have anything to dig with, which I doubt.’
‘Tommy says they surprised him on the landslide. They’ll guess what he was doing there, so they must at least have a rough idea of where the bag must be,’ argued Ginger.
‘Raulstein has no actual proof that Tommy knows where the bag is, or that it was he who hid it. He only assumes. Tommy, even under threats, won’t be able to help them any more than he could help us.’
‘They’ll bump him off out of spite.’
‘Kill the only goose on the island that might be able to lay golden eggs! Not likely. They wouldn’t be so daft as to do that.’
‘When you chaps have finished arguing, how about getting down to brass tacks?’ Bertie said impatiently. ‘Those toughs have got a launch tucked away somewhere. They’re living on it. That’s why they’re no longer using the cabin.’
‘That’s fairly obvious,’ answered Biggles. ‘But while this fog persists, they’re no more able to get away than we are — not without the risk of knocking a hole in their boat. Raulstein, as we know, is no sailor; and neither, I’d bet, are his pals.’
‘What if the fog should lift?’
‘Fraser will be over, flat out.’
‘What if the fog doesn’t lift? Do we just sit here and perish from slow starvation?’
‘What can we do about it?’
‘I can tell you what I’m going to do. I’m not waiting for manna to drop from heaven.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘We’re agreed these stiffs must have a boat?’
‘I don’t suppose they swam here.’
‘If there’s a boat there must be grub on board. Right?’
‘So it’s reasonable to suppose.’
‘Well then. What are we waiting for? If you see what I mean.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m going to find the bally boat and give my teeth something to bite on. If you boys behave yourselves I’ll bring you a bite of something to go on with.’
‘You’ll have a job to find the boat.’
‘I’ll find it. I’ve always been good at finding boats. I can smell ‘em a mile off.’
‘Haven’t
you forgotten something?’
‘Such as?’
‘Raulstein said he was posting a guard to knock off anyone who tried to leave the cabin.’
‘He was talking through his trilby. All codswallop. I can’t see any of that bunch squatting all day on wet ground waiting for our front door to open.’
‘Even if you’re right, you’re likely to have a long walk in front of you.’
‘My legs are still working.’
‘And having found the boat, what if the gang is on board?’
‘Leave it to me, chum. If I know anything, they’ll be clawing into that landslide like rabbits with a dog on their tails.’
‘Fair enough, if that’s how you feel. Carry on.’
‘And I’ve got another idea,’ declared Bertie, polishing his eyeglass vigorously. ‘I don’t know what’s come over me, but I’m fairly bristling with ideas. Must be something to do with the atmosphere.’
‘What’s the latest brainwave?’
‘When I go out, if anyone is watching you’ll hear guns go off.’
‘So?’
‘If there’s no shooting, you blokes sitting here toasting your tootsies will know the coast is clear.’
‘And then?’
‘Well, there’d be no reason why Ginger shouldn’t totter down to the landing ground and be on the spot ready to meet Fraser when the fog packs up. Someone ought to be there to give him the gen about what goes on here.’
‘Any reason why I shouldn’t go?’ inquired Biggles.
‘Yes. Tommy might make a break. If he does he’ll come here. If he arrived and found the cabin abandoned, he’d think we’d pushed off and left him to his fate — and all that sort of rot, if you get my meaning.’
Biggles smiled wanly. ‘As you say, dear boy, the old brain pan must have put in some overtime. Fair enough. See what you can do. I must admit it’s pretty grim sitting here with nothing better to do than twiddle our thumbs.’
‘Then you don’t mind if I do a little foraging? After all, I’ve nothing to lose.’
‘Only your life — if you reckon that nothing.’
‘Don’t be so depressing. Believe you me, old boy, I shall hang on to my life like grim death. I’ll be back.’
So saying, Bertie took out his automatic pistol, examined it, and with it in his hand walked to the door. Very quietly he opened it a little way, letting in a trickle of fog. For a moment he stood silhouetted against an opaque background. Then he moved forward and closed the door behind him.
‘There, I’m afraid, goes poor old Bertie,’ Ginger said in a melancholy voice.
Biggles did not answer.
They listened for the expected gunshots.
None came.
Ginger breathed again.
CHAPTER 11
BERTIE TAKES A WALK
WHEN Bertie left the cabin he did so silently and slowly, but ready to move swiftly should Raulstein’s threat materialize. He did not think it would, if for no other reason than a man guarding the door would have to stand right up against it to serve his purpose, so dense was the fog. Visibility might have been five yards, not more. Apart from that, as Bertie had said, he could not imagine any member of the gang spending the day just standing there in the chilly fog. By peering, straining his eyes, Bertie could see no more than an indistinct grey blur that had no outline, but which he knew was the edge of the wood.
There was no movement. No sound. The island seemed to have been choked to death by the pall of vapour that had enveloped it. He sidestepped quickly a single pace in order not to present a stationary target to anyone who might be there; then he stopped again to stare and listen. If anyone was there he gave no indication of his presence. Still, it was a tense, anxious moment, and Bertie held his pistol at the ready, prepared to use it at the first sign of danger. He continued to move, a step at a time, along the side of the cabin to get to the rear. There could, he thought, be no purpose in anyone waiting there.
Reaching this, his immediate objective, he breathed more freely. So he had been right. No one had been left on guard. He was relieved, but not surprised. Once split up the gang would find it difficult to get in touch again, at all events without calling or otherwise making a noise. There was, he suspected, another reason why the two Americans would prefer to keep close to Raulstein. They did not trust him. Why should they? How could they? Bertie had noticed the expression that had passed over the face of one of them when Biggles had made the remark to the effect that they would be stupid to suppose Raulstein would share the swag with them even if they found it... he had already murdered two men, so why should they not get the same treatment? It was the sort of behaviour the Americans, being armed crooks themselves, would understand. Bertie was sure that the seed of mistrust which Biggles had sown had fallen on fertile ground, as was of course intended.
He now moved with more confidence, although that is not to say carelessly. Arriving at the far end of the cabin, along the back, he again paused to listen. Satisfied that all was well, he passed on quickly to the fringe of the trees. Reaching the nearest, he stopped again, taking up a position to watch; to make certain he had not been followed. Nothing happened. Feeling more comfortable now he was out of the danger zone, he put the gun in his pocket and prepared for the task he had set himself. It would, he thought, be more difficult than dangerous; but he would still have to be careful, relying more on his ears than his eyes to keep clear of the edge of the cliff and the sea below.
He was handicapped by not knowing the coastline, or, indeed, anything at all about the island except the open part in the middle where Fraser had landed. He expected to find that the fierce Atlantic storms had bitten deeply into the land, as had happened on the mainland. There were bound to be coves and creeks of varying extent, and in one of them, if his surmise was correct, the launch that had brought Raulstein and his accomplices to the island would be moored. It was not likely to be on the open sea, exposed to the weather.
What exactly he intended to do should he locate the launch he still did not know. As he had said, that would depend on the circumstances. A crew might have been left on board. The entire gang might have returned to it to wait for the weather conditions to improve. But it was more likely, he thought, that with Tommy in their custody, and aware that they were not alone on the island, they would make every possible effort to secure the bag of jewels without wasting a minute.
By listening intently, Bertie could just make out the murmur of the waves on the desolate shore. It was only a murmur, a gentle purr, indicating that the sea was dead calm, as was to be expected since there was hardly a breath of breeze. Had there been any wind, there would have been no fog. The lapping of the waves was his only guide; and he moved on towards it, taking a direction away from the landslide to avoid any possible collision with the enemy.
Careful though he was, he nearly came to grief at the outset. A dark, irregular mark lay across his path. He took it to be an outcrop of the black rock of which the island was largely composed. Although he approached it cautiously, it was not until he felt the ground slipping under his feet that he realized his mistake; that the stain was in fact a narrow crack in the cliff, an inlet of the sea. Having scrambled back to a safe position, more than somewhat startled, he stared, listening. From far below came the sound of water, surging and gushing. This was the shore. The shock served as a warning of what a careless step might mean.
Having rounded the trap, continuing on his way he encountered similar obstructions. He could not see the water, but he could hear it. This made progress slow, and he began to feel a little despondent, wondering how he was to find the launch even if it was there. It seemed hardly worth while going on, and he sat on a rock to give the project further consideration.
And it was as he sat there, thinking seriously of abandoning the search, wiping condensation from his monocle, that something happened to give him renewed hope. It was not much. No more than a slight pressure of air on his face. A breeze. It was just strong enough to te
ar the fog into long, streaming shreds, like rags of butter muslin. Once for a brief moment he caught a glimpse of the sea. Delighted, he waited. In a few minutes, the breeze freshening, on and off, visibility had increased to about fifty yards. This was not constant. The fog still hung in great opaque clouds, but it moved. There were gaps. It was no longer the motionless mass it had been earlier.
In these changing conditions he had to give some thought to a return to the cabin forthwith, in case Biggles was anxious to move, possibly to the landing ground in anticipation of Fraser coming over. After some reflection he decided to carry on, telling himself that should the fog clear altogether, he would be able to make fast time back to the cabin, for although he had been out for some time, he knew he had covered no great distance. So he went on, through fog now varying in density. During the intervals when it was thin he could see the sea, and was able to hurry. Once for a few seconds there was even a blink of sun. It was quickly extinguished; but he now felt it was only a question of time before the battle of sun and breeze against the fog would end in the latter either being burnt up or blown away. So it was in a more optimistic frame of mind that he resumed his quest.
It ended about half an hour later, in weather conditions that had slowly but steadily improved. He was brought to a halt by the sound of blows, as of metal on metal. Going to the edge of the cliff on all fours he looked over. A hundred feet below, in a tiny cove, moored to a flat slab of rock which formed a ready-made landing-stage, was the launch. Or at any rate, a launch; and he was sure it could only be the one he sought. A man was on the deck. One man; hammering at something, although just what he was doing was not apparent. He wore overalls and appeared to be coloured. In fact, a Negro. Bertie didn’t mind what colour he was. He was only concerned with finding the way down. Obviously, as Raulstein and his companions had come up, there had to be a way.
A close study of the sides of the cove revealed a sloping bank; a fall of loose rock; across it he could just discern a zigzag mark which he thought could only be a track; a narrow path. Elsewhere the sides of the cove were almost precipitous, unclimbable except at considerable risk. He made his way towards it, taking no pains to conceal himself, knowing the deck-hand would be bound to see him, or hear him, as he went down the track. At the moment the man was too busy at what he was doing to look up.
