by W E Johns
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I: A PILOT PASSES
CHAPTER II: DOWN THE AFRICAN TRAIL
CHAPTER III: AN UNPLEASANT PASSENGER
CHAPTER IV: SINISTER DEVELOPMENTS
CHAPTER V: ALONE WITH A LION
CHAPTER VI: SARDA STRIKES
CHAPTER VII: GINGER COMES HOME
CHAPTER VIII: SAVAGES
CHAPTER IX: BIGGLES SUMS UP
CHAPTER X: ALGY’S ANTELOPE HUNT
CHAPTER XI: CRASHED BY A RHINO
CHAPTER XII: THE SNAKE IN THE GRASS
CHAPTER XIII: WHAT NEXT?
CHAPTER XIV: ORDEAL BY FIRE
CHAPTER XV: BIGGLES SPEAKS
CHAPTER XVI: THE ROUND-UP
CHAPTER XVII: IN CONCLUSION
CHAPTER I
A PILOT PASSES
BIGGLES looked up from the breakfast table of his Mount Street flat as his two friends, Algy Lacey and Ginger Hebblethwaite, walked into the room. From their shining faces and the dressing-gowns they wore it was clear that they had come direct from the bathroom, and Biggles eyed them with frank disapproval.
‘What’s the matter with you fellows lately?’ he asked coldly.
‘Speaking for myself, nothing,’ replied Algy cheerfully. ‘Why?’
‘I was wondering if you’d contracted sleepy-sickness or something. You get later and later. It’s nearly half-past nine—a nice time to roll down to brekker, I must say. Well, you’ll be unlucky tomorrow; I’ve told Mrs Symes to clear the table at eight-thirty in future.’
‘Why all the hurry?’ inquired Algy imperturbably, as he pulled out a chair and seated himself at the table. ‘There’s nothing much to get up for, anyway, is there? None of us has done a day’s work for weeks, not since we wound up Cronfeldt’s gold-running racket. I can’t understand what all the crooks are doing. If somebody doesn’t soon start something I shall sink into a condition of permanent coma.’
‘And when they do you’ll be the first to grouse.’
‘Not me; anything would be better than mooning about here.’
‘I don’t know what you’ve got to grumble at; you’ve had plenty of flying.’
‘Am I a pupil at a flying school that I must go round and round the sky with nowhere to go and nothing to do? I hardly like to confess it, but I am afraid that flying for the sake of flying no longer amuses me. I wish to goodness some one would ask us to go and fetch something from somewhere, or take something somewhere, or start an air line, or a war—anything.’
‘Well, your wish may be fulfilled sooner than you expect.’
Algy started, and a slow smile spread over Ginger’s face.
‘What ho! Out with it; there’s something in the wind,’ declared Algy shrewdly. ‘What is it?’
‘Go and put on your jackets, both of you, and I’ll tell you,’ promised Biggles. ‘I’m expecting a visitor, and I don’t want to create the impression that this is a home for invalid inebriates.’
As they left the room Biggles picked up a letter that lay on the table in front of him and read it for the third or fourth time. He was still pondering over it when Algy and Ginger returned, eager expectation written on their faces.
‘Well, get it off your chest,’ invited Algy, reaching a long arm for the coffee-pot.
‘If you’ll sit down and behave like a little gentleman instead of grabbing things like a famished tramp let loose in a tuck-shop, I’ll begin.’
Algy pulled the toast-rack and the marmalade within easy reach ‘Go ahead,’ he said cheerfully, ‘I’m all ears.’
‘There is no need for you to advertise what any one looking at you could hardly fail to see,’ murmured Biggles pointedly, with his eyes on the sheet of paper he still held in his hands. ‘This letter,’ he continued quickly, ‘is from Mr. Felix Marton. Does that name convey anything to you?’
Algy shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said sadly. ‘Not a blooming thing.’
But Ginger raised a hand. ‘Marton’s Marathon Motor-bikes?’ he suggested.
Biggles nodded. ‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘The maker of the world-famous speed-track models is, I suspect, in trouble. Listen—this is what he says:
‘Marton’s Motor-cycles, Ltd.,
Birmingham.
Dear Major Bigglesworth,
I am taking the liberty of writing this letter to you because your name has been suggested to me by Colonel Raymond of Scotland Yard—whom I met recently at a dinner party—as the most likely man to help me to solve a very grievous problem. Business will take me to London to-morrow, Thursday, so I propose to call on you. I have several appointments during the day, so the time will probably be early in the forenoon. I will leave the subject on which I wish to consult you until then.
Yours sincerely,
FELIX MARTON.’
‘I like the word “consult”,’ grinned Ginger. ‘Sounds like good detective stuff to me.’
‘Have you any idea what it’s about?’ inquired Algy.
‘Yes.’ Biggles lit a cigarette. ‘The name was familiar to me at once, quite apart from motor-bikes, and after a few minutes’ deep reflection I re-called the association. Don’t you remember, about a year ago, a young fellow named Marton—’ Biggles broke off as the front door bell whirred. ‘I should say this is our visitor—or, as Ginger would perhaps prefer to say, our client,’ he concluded. ‘Be serious, everybody.’
There came a knock on the door, which a moment later was opened by Mrs. Symes. ‘Mr. Felix Marton, sir,’ she said, and withdrew, leaving the famous motor-cycle manufacturer with the three airmen.
‘Sit down, sir,’ said Biggles respectfully, pulling forward a chair, at the same time running a quick eye over the visitor.
He saw a man of about fifty years of age whose snow-white hair and sad face, accentuated by the dark clothes he wore, told a story of acute suffering. His manner was listless, although there was more than a suggestion of old-time courtesy in it.
‘Allow me to introduce my two very good friends and comrades,’ continued Biggles. ‘Captain Lacey and Mr. Hebblethwaite.’
Mr. Marton bowed. ‘I am honoured to make your acquaintance, gentlemen,’ he said gravely.
‘And now, sir,’ went on Biggles, ‘we are entirely at your service.’
‘I have come to talk to you about my son,’ said Mr. Marton slowly, looking Biggles squarely in the face.
‘Yes, I rather thought that was the object of your visit,’ nodded Biggles. ‘I’ve just been speaking on the telephone to the Secretary of the Royal Aero Club to refresh my memory with the circumstances of—but never mind that. Please tell us your story in your own way. What I have heard is, of course, the official version, which does not necessarily mean that it is the correct one—at least, in the matter of detail.’
‘Then I think I had better start right at the beginning,’ observed the old man. ‘Really, the story begins about two years ago when my son Harry—my only son, I may say—persuaded me against my better judgement to allow him to learn to fly. I have nothing against aviation, don’t think that, but my wife is dead and the boy was all I had left to care for, so not unnaturally I was loth to let him take the slightest risk of injuring himself.
‘However, like many other young fellows, flying made an irresistible appeal to him, and in the end he had his own way. He joined the Midland Aero Club, and judging by the reports of his instructors, he soon became a pilot of exceptional ability, taking both his ‘A’ and ‘B’ Licences within a year. But he soon began to look for new worlds to conquer. In particular he took a great interest in record-breaking flights, and at length conceived a plan for making such a flight himself. He decided to attack the England to Capetown record. From a financial point of view I had nothing against it, because I am what the world wo
uld call a rich man, but I was apprehensive for his safety and I told him so. Well, he overruled my protests, and in the end, having bought a new Puss Moth for the purpose, he set out. That was just over a year ago.
‘I needn’t go into the details of the earlier part of the flight; as far as one can gather they were quite normal. All went well, and at Malakal, which as you probably know is in Central Africa, he was several hours in front of his time schedule. Now this is where the unhappy part of the affair begins. He landed at Malakal at ten-thirty in the morning, rather tired, but as fit as the proverbial fiddle and with his engine running perfectly. He refuelled, had a cold bath, and half an hour later took off again bound for Juba.’
‘You’ve confirmed that, I suppose?’ put in Biggles.
‘Oh, yes. There’s not much doubt about it, anyway. He was flying down the Imperial route, and Malakal is an important station, with radio equipment, and so on. The officials there are unanimous that he was well and had nothing on his mind. He was seen to take off, and as he left the ground the wireless operator advised the control officer at Juba to be on the look-out for him. But he never arrived. From that moment the flight is wrapped in mystery. Days passed, grew into weeks, and still no word came. Imperial Airways pilots kept a sharp look-out for a crash on the ground, but they saw nothing, although the country at that point is fairly open—sandy plain for the most part, dotted with clumps of thorn and mimosa trees. A crash would be visible for miles. Now mark this well. At the same time as Harry took off from Malakal, bound for Juba, the Imperial Airways Atalanta air-liner Arethusa took off from Juba bound for Malakal. They should have passed each other somewhere about mid-way between the two points. But they didn’t. Captain Cuthbertson, who was flying the air-liner, is absolutely emphatic that no machine could have passed him—travelling in the opposite direction, of course—without his seeing it. Visibility was perfect. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. So the obvious inference is that Harry disappeared between Malakal and a point half-way to Juba.’
Mr. Marton stopped and took from his attache case a large-scale map of Central Africa, which he opened out on the table. ‘Here is a map of the district kindly given to me by Imperial Airways. It is one of the same sort as they issue to their pilots.’ He pointed to a spot in the centre of the map. ‘Here is Malakal,’ he said.
‘And now we come to a very curious incident,’ he went on. ‘It is the only clue we have that throws any light on the mystery, although in some respects it tends to deepen it. Three weeks after Harry disappeared, a white hunter named Major Lawton arrived at Nairobi, in Kenya Colony, and on hearing about the missing machine he made a statement. He said that on the day in question he was on safari—that is, on the march—with his native porters, in the district concerned. When about a hundred and fifty miles south of Malakal he saw a red monoplane gliding down in the direction of Insula with its engine off. The Puss Moth is, as you know, a monoplane, and Harry’s machine was painted red. Major Lawton did not pay much attention to it, assuming that the pilot was one of the now numerous Cape flyers, as was, in fact, the case. He thought no more about it until he got back to Nairobi. Now this place Insula is, to my mind, the crux of the whole affair. When Major Lawton’s report reached me I chartered an aeroplane and flew out to make inquiries on the spot. I saw Major Lawton, and what he told me left no doubt in my mind that Harry was actually gliding down into the aerodrome at Insula when he saw him.’
‘Insula? I’ve never heard of the place,’ muttered Biggles curiously.
‘Precisely! Very few people have, and inquiries revealed a peculiar state of affairs. It appears that many years ago, when the Cape route was first projected, it was proposed to establish an aerodrome in a stretch of open country known locally as Insula. The ground was cleared of ant-hills and other obstructions—by R.A.F. personnel, I understand—and the usual white chalk ring laid down on the ground to make it conspicuous to airmen. At that juncture it was no more than an emergency landing-ground—which, for that matter, it still is. Subsequently, Imperial Airways decided not to have an aerodrome there, and the place was abandoned. But about four years ago their head office received an application from a Greek trading concern in Cairo for permission to use the aerodrome. They offered to pay a small fee, and did, in fact, do so. The only stipulation Imperial Airways made was that they should keep the place in order and hold a supply of petrol for the convenience of passing aircraft—not that they imagined that the place would be used very often.’
‘What reason did these Greeks give for wanting to use such an out-of-the-way place?’ inquired Biggles.
‘It was quite feasible. They said they were anxious to experiment with the culture of high-grade Turkish tobacco, for which the ground there was eminently suitable. It is. A lot of tobacco is now grown in Africa, as you know, but unfortunately most of it is rather coarse. They hoped to produce something better. The place was a long way from Cairo, so their idea, they said, was to get an aeroplane and fly to and fro, leaving the actual crop in the hands of an overseer and using the old aerodrome at Insula as a base. Now here is another curious fact. Imperial Airways tell me that for two years this Greek concern paid its rent, but after that they heard nothing more and assumed that the whole thing had been dropped, or gone smash. So they were quite surprised when I was able to inform them that when I landed on the aerodrome it was obviously still in use, or had been until recently. A supply of petrol is held there in charge of a half-caste fellow who appears to act as a sort of caretaker-storeman. Now this is very odd. When I tackled this fellow about Harry he expressed surprise, and declared that he knew nothing about him; but later, when I told him in pretty strong terms that Major Lawton had seen Harry’s machine land—I stretched a point deliberately—he admitted it.’
‘He admitted lying?’
‘No. Oh no. He gave a well-simulated start of astonishment and said it had slipped his memory. He did remember, now that I reminded him, that a red aeroplane had landed. The pilot, whose name he did not know, was having a little trouble with his engine, but he quickly effected repairs and took off again, heading south, presumably for Juba. That was all, except that he admitted that the Greek tobacco company still paid him a small retaining fee to look after the place, and that once in a while their machine landed there. That this was true is proved by the fact that when Imperial Airways approached the company for arrears of rent, they paid up without a word. Well, my pilot and I stayed there for a week, during which time we searched the district for signs of a crash, but in vain. There was nothing more we could do. That’s the story, Major Bigglesworth, but I am far from satisfied that it is the end of it. Something happened to Harry at Insula—I am certain of it; but the authorities won’t take the matter up on such flimsy evidence, and I can’t say that I altogether blame them. What happened to Harry? Where is his machine? Africa is a big place, but there are very few square miles of it that are not traversed by somebody, black or white, during the year. A wrecked aeroplane is a conspicuous object, and the discovery of one could not long go unremarked. Native gossip would soon reach the ears of political officers, and the world would quickly know what had happened to my poor boy.’
Biggles stared moodily at the hearthrug for some time while his fingers drummed a soft tattoo on the table. Then he looked up. ‘What was your object in coming to see me, Mr. Marton?’ he said.
‘I was hoping that you would be open to consider a proposition.’
‘To go to Africa to find—the crash?’
‘I’m by no means sure that you would find a crash.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t think Harry did crash.’
‘Oh, come—come, Mr. Marton. What other trouble could overtake an aeroplane in Africa?’
‘That’s what I want you to find out. I am not superstitious, and it’s not merely a hope born of a father’s anxiety, but something inside me tells me that my boy is still alive—that he has been the victim of circumstances beyond his control. I may be wro
ng, but what I want is proof. This uncertainty is killing me. If I were sure that he had crashed and been killed—well, it would be a dreadful blow, but I should at least know the worst. It’s this disappearing into thin air—’
‘Many other machines have disappeared, Mr. Marton. Disappeared without trace.’
‘I know, but if you’ll examine the records you will see that that sort of thing has always happened near the sea. Whenever a machine has disappeared inland, sooner or later the crash has been found.’
Biggles nodded. ‘Yes, I must admit you’re right there,’ he agreed.
‘The spot where Harry disappeared is a thousand miles from the sea, and his machine had a cruising range of only five hundred miles. He could not have reached the sea even if he had wanted to.’
‘He could, by refuelling.’
‘In which case there would be a record of where he refuelled. People don’t give petrol away. He would have paid for it. He was flying due south, and on that course he was three thousand miles from the sea. Can you imagine any reason why a pilot, intent on breaking a long-distance record, should deviate from his course by a single mile?’
‘None whatever. That is, not voluntarily. He might be blown off his course by dirty weather.’
‘At the time of which we are speaking the weather was perfect. That’s what makes it all the more inexplicable.’
Biggles bit his bottom lip reflectively. ‘A curious business,’ he admitted. He looked up at Mr. Marton. ‘Such a trip as the one you propose would cost a lot of money,’ he observed warningly.
‘As far as I’m concerned money doesn’t enter into it. I have plenty, but what is the use of it to me without my boy? I’d willingly give every penny of it to know the truth.’
‘It seems to me to be a matter of time,’ went on Biggles presently. ‘Making Insula our base, we could divide the whole country up into sections, and search every one of them thoroughly. If we did that, sooner or later we should find the crash, but I’m afraid it might take a very long time.’
