Biggles In Africa

by W E Johns

  The motor-cycle magnate sprang to his feet. ‘Harry’s machine is somewhere in Africa today, either intact or a mangled wreck,’ he cried, ‘and I’m going to spend every penny of my fortune looking for it. Will you help me?’

  Biggles moved uneasily, and glanced at his partners. ‘Well—’ he began haltingly.

  ‘You can name your own terms,’ offered Mr. Marton.

  Biggles shook his head. ‘I wasn’t thinking so much about money,’ he said.

  ‘Will you go ?’

  Biggles nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll go, but as I’ve said, it’s likely to be a big job. I think the only fair way would be for you to finance the expedition, paying all expenses, and paying myself and my co-pilots a flat rate worked out on a time basis.’

  ‘Anything you like. You shall have a draft on my bank immediately. Further—although I’m not doing this as an inducement, because I know you’ll do everything in your power anyway—the day you find Harry’s machine, crashed or intact, I’ll pay you five thousand pounds. And if you find Harry, or—his grave—I’ll double it.’

  Biggles rose to his feet. ‘That’s very generous of you,’ he said. ‘I trust that we may be successful.’

  ‘When will you start ?’

  ‘Just as soon as the Royal Aero Club can get permits for us to fly over foreign territory. If you don’t hear from us you will know that we have nothing to report, but be assured that we shall be doing our best. If we discover anything we will cable you at once.’

  ‘Thank you, my boy.’

  Biggles held out his hand. ‘Good-bye, sir,’ he said warmly.

  ‘Good-bye, and may God help you in your search.’

  Biggles closed the door behind the unhappy father, and then walked slowly back into the room. ‘It looks as if we’ve only escaped von Stalhein’s bullets to make a dinner for lions,’ he observed whimsically. ‘Any one who fancies his chance as a wild-beast tamer can start packing his kit; I’m going round to the Aero Club.’

  CHAPTER II

  DOWN THE AFRICAN TRAIL

  TEN days later he touched his wheels lightly on the sun-baked aerodrome at Malakal and taxied slowly towards the rest-house to refuel.

  So far the trip had not been entirely uneventful. After some consideration and consultation with the others, he had decided on a Dragon Moth as the most suitable aeroplane for their task. It was roomy, and the two engines, besides giving them an ample reserve of power, enabled them to carry a heavy load of provisions and spare parts, for they had no delusions about the magnitude of the undertaking. To find a burnt-out aeroplane crash —for that was what, in his heart, Biggles expected to find—even if the approximate position of it were known, would have been no easy matter; but with an area of many thousands of square miles to search—for he did not overlook the fact that the Puss Moth could have headed in any direction after it left Insula—it became formidable.

  Like Harry Marton, he had followed the Imperial route all the way, telling no one of their purpose, but allowing the aerodrome officials to assume that the Dragon was merely on a pleasure cruise to Capetown. They had run into the usual bumpy weather over Egypt, had struck a haboob1 between Wadi Halfa and Khartoum, and had spent some anxious minutes with an engine missing fire over the dreaded Sudd, the great expanse of crocodile-infested papyrus swamp south of the Sudan, where roamed herds of elephants, secure from the ever-advancing tide of civilization. To the east lay Abyssinia; to the south, the vast Tanganyika Territory; and to the west, the very heart of the dark continent—the Belgian Congo, merging in its northern extremity into the waterless wastes of the Sudan.

  ‘Fill her up, please,’ Biggles told the ground engineer, as he climbed out and stretched before walking towards the shade of the rest-house, for the rays of the sun were pouring down with fierce intensity.

  Algy and Ginger followed him, mopping their faces, their solar topees tilted back.

  ‘Sort of warmish, eh?’ grinned Ginger.

  ‘What else did you expect it to be on the Equator?’ smiled Biggles.

  ‘Are we actually on it?’

  ‘Your feet are toeing the line—or they would be if there was one. But wait a minute. I want to have a word or two with this chap.’ Biggles paid his fees and then invited the engineer into the rest-house for some refreshment. He was an Englishman, they found, Harker by name.

  ‘Do you remember a fellow named Marton coming in here about twelve months ago?’ Biggles asked casually.

  The engineer glanced up. ‘I ought to; I filled up his tanks for him,’ he answered simply.

  ‘Funny business, the way he disappeared into the blue.’

  Harker nodded.

  ‘What do you suppose happened to him?’

  ‘Oh, he went down in the bush somewhere. Chewed up by lions or hyenas by this time.’ It was clear that the engineer was not particularly interested.

  ‘There’s a rumour that he went down at Insula,’ prompted Biggles, athirst for any scrap of information, however meagre.

  ‘Yes, I heard that.’

  ‘They tell me it’s run by some Greeks now.’

  ‘So I believe.’

  ‘Ever see anything of them?’

  ‘Once, a long time ago. At least, I think it must have been them.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘It must be about eighteen months. There was a Greek flying with a French pilot.’

  ‘Know anything about them?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  It was obvious that Harker was not inclined to be communicative. Biggles was not surprised. The man looked tired and full of fever. Between them, the sun and the mosquitoes had played havoc with his constitution.

  ‘Do you remember what they were flying?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘French machine. Open cockpit biplane, about ten years old by the look of it. Why all these questions?’

  ‘Just interested. I know Marton’s father, so I thought that as I was passing through, I’d see if I could pick up any information. Well, I’ll be getting along.’

  ‘Is Juba your next stop? I’ll signal them that you’re on your way, if you like.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ replied Biggles quickly. ‘As a matter of fact, Imperials have asked us to have a look at Insula on the way down—only keep that to yourself.’

  ‘Why—are they thinking of operting it up?’

  ‘No; I think they’re just mildly interested to know what sort of a state it’s in.’

  ‘I see. Well, we’ll be seeing you on the way back, I expect.’

  ‘I expect so,’ answered Biggles noncommittally, as he walked towards the Dragon.

  ‘Nothing much to be picked up here, by the look of it,’ observed Algy quietly.

  ‘I didn’t expect anything. That fellow’s got no axe to grind. As far as he’s concerned, Harry Marton was just one of many.’

  They got back into the machine, took off and headed south for the deserted aerodrome of Insula.

  Biggles found it rather more than an hour later, not without difficulty, for there was little to distinguish it from the rest of the inhospitable terrain, which was flat, studded with groups of curious, flat-topped trees and outcrops of grey stone. Farther to the west the country was more thickly wooded, although it remained fairly open, not unlike parkland in Europe, but with short, yellow, sun-dried grass instead of greensward.

  ‘I think this must be the place,’ muttered Biggles, looking down. ‘But I understood there was a white ring to mark the centre of the landing area.’

  ‘So there should be,’ declared Ginger. ‘I remember Mr. Marton saying so. So did the Imperial Airways people when I went down to make inquiries about the place.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t here now.’

  ‘Got covered up by a dust-storm, perhaps.’

  ‘In that case the fellow in charge should have cleared it again.’

  ‘That’s right enough,’ muttered AIgy. ‘Hello, there he is now. I saw him pop out from under the trees and take a look at us. He’s gone b
ack in again now.’

  ‘Funny!’

  ‘Why funny?’

  ‘That he should hop back in,’ observed Biggles, as he throttled back and began a long glide towards the arid brown earth that formed the surface of the aerodrome. ‘I’ve seen thousands of aeroplanes land in my time, but if I was down there I should certainly be out on the tarmac watching this machine land. It’s the natural thing to do. I’ll bet ninety-nine people out of a hundred would. That fellow can’t see so many aeroplanes here that he is sick of the sight of them. I shall be interested to have a look at him.’

  There was not very much wind, but what little there was came from the south-west, making it necessary for the machine to glide in over the primitive aerodrome buildings. The airmen all looked down as they swept low over them, but not a soul was in sight, and a moment later the Dragon bumped its wheels rather heavily on the hard earth some distance beyond.

  A frown of displeasure crossed Biggles’s face as the machine bounced to a standstill. ‘If either of you ever flies this machine while we’re here, be careful,’ he warned the others. ‘We’re on the great African plateau, and what with the heat and the rarefied atmosphere, she drops like a brick the instant you flatten out. And just a last word of advice before I taxi in. From now on anything might happen. Don’t ask me what because I don’t know, but the feeling I have in my bones doesn’t often let me down. That tool-chest must always be kept locked, and the case with our rifles in. Keep your automatics handy, but don’t let any one see them. And finally, not a word about the job we’re on. If it becomes necessary to mention young Marton, leave it to me. Eyes open and mouths shut is our motto, although naturally I shall have to have a word or two with this fellow in charge of the aerodrome. What did Mr. Marton say his name was?’

  ‘Sarda—Luke Sarda,’ Ginger reminded him.

  ‘That’s it. Well, here we are. If nothing occurs to make an alteration of plan advisable, I shall stick to the original scheme and start a systematic search of the whole area. Anybody got any questions to ask?’

  There was no reply, so Biggles taxied up to where a reed-thatched rest-house stood in the doubtful shade of a coppice of old, almost leafless trees. Near it was a hangar built almost entirely of reeds, or elephant grass, now in the last stages of dilapidation. A short distance away, in a clearing amongst the trees, was another building, a bungalow, more solidly built of square timber, and roofed with corrugated iron.

  ‘I expect that’s the manager’s residence,’ observed Biggles, glancing in its direction, as they all stepped out of the machine. ‘And this looks like the lad himself,’ he went on as a massive figure, clad in little more than rags, appeared from the far side of the building and hurried towards them.

  ‘Phew! What a beauty,’ breathed Ginger. ‘If looks are anything to go by, I should say he’s the sort of bloke who would stab his blind grandmother for her money-box.’

  ‘The trouble is, you can’t always judge by looks,’ murmured Biggles. ‘Ssh, leave the talking to me.’

  Together they stood in the shadow of the Dragon’s wings and waited for the aerodrome manager to come up to them. As Ginger had observed, if appearances were anything to go by the man looked capable of any vice or crime. In the first place he was clearly a half-breed, with the black predominant, although his hair was long and straight. His mouth was large, with loose lips, from a comer of which a ghastly scar ran transversely across his face to the opposite side of the forehead, straight across the right eye—or rather, the socket where it should have been. The weapon that had made the scar had obviously destroyed the eye at the same time. Nor was this unpleasant picture improved by innumerable pock-marks that dotted the man’s face. His one saving grace was his physique, for he was well over six feet in height, although this did nothing to make his appearance less forbidding. Nor did his clothes, such as they were. A pair of calico trousers, torn, and filthy beyond description, topped by the remains of an old striped pyjama jacket, open from the throat to the waist, completed his outfit. He wore nothing on his feet, not even sandals.

  ‘Good afternoon. You’re Mr. Sarda, I suppose?’ began Biggles.

  ‘Yaas, that’s me,’ replied the ‘manager’, in passable English. ‘You want petrol, huh?’

  ‘You keep a stock here then, do you?’

  ‘Yaas.’

  ‘I don’t need any at present, but I shall later on.’

  ‘When you come back—huh?’

  ‘No, I’m going to stay here for a little while.’

  If this announcement caused Sarda any surprise, he did not show it. ‘Plenty mosquito, plenty sandfly, plenty fever,’ he grunted pessimistically.

  ‘We’ve got plenty of quinine and mosquito curtains,’ Biggles told him.

  ‘Plenty booze, perhaps—huh?’

  ‘Sorry, but I’m afraid that’s where we must disappoint you.’

  ‘What you come here for—huh?’

  ‘We’ve come to make a report on the aerodrome for the government, and look round for other suitable sites,’ Biggles told him casually.

  ‘No grub here.’

  ‘No matter, we’ve got plenty; and if we run short we can easily run up to Malakal for more,’ answered Biggles. ‘I suppose you’ve got plenty of water?’

  ‘No water.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Plenty rain-water. All right for engine but no use for drink. Plenty dysentery.’

  ‘Well, I expect we shall get over that difficulty,’ observed Biggles with expressionless face. ‘Just get the hangar door open and we’ll put our machine inside out of the sun.’

  ‘We’d better give him a hand,’ suggested Algy, as the half-breed began folding back the flimsy doors.

  Together they got the machine inside and then went down to the rest-house. It was in a filthy condition, but Biggles kept back the criticism that rose to his lips, for he had no wish to antagonize the man at the outset.

  ‘Have you been here very long?’ he asked, as he surveyed with disgust not unmixed with alarm the tangle of cobwebs that festooned the under side of the thatch.

  ‘Four years—maybe five.’

  ‘Don’t see many aeroplanes down this way, I suppose?’

  ‘No planes come here.’

  ‘Some time since you had a visitor, eh?’

  ‘Six months or more.’

  ‘Is that why you did away with the white ring on the aerodrome?’

  ‘It got washed out with the rains,’ muttered the half-breed sullenly.

  ‘Yes, of course, it would,’ murmured Biggles, as if he was quite satisfied with the explanation. ‘By the way, isn’t this the place where that lad—what was his name... Marton, that’s it—landed, just before he disappeared?’ Biggles’s manner was inconsequential, as if the matter was of no real interest to him.

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘Yaas,’ said Sarda slowly.

  ‘Funny business to disappear like that.’ Glancing up suddenly, Biggles caught Sarda’s eyes on him, and what he saw in them sent a cold shiver down his spine. In the circumstances he decided that no good purpose would be served by pursuing the matter farther. ‘I think we’d better get our things out of the machine and fix ourselves up,’ he said, turning to the others.

  ‘How long you stay?’ asked Sarda dispassionately.

  ‘Not more than a day or two, I hope,’ returned Biggles truthfully. ‘But don’t worry about us: we can look after ourselves. I suppose you’ll be about in case we happen to want you?’

  The half-caste nodded towards the bungalow. ‘Yaas,’ he said, ‘in there.’ Then, suddenly, his single eye switched, and following it with his own, Biggles saw what it was that had attracted his attention. A slim centipede, nearly a foot long, had emerged from under the eaves of the rest-house and was gliding down the wall with a horrible concertina-like movement. Sarda’s eyes followed it, coldly. Slowly, his hand went inside his jacket and came out holding a heavy knife by the blade. His arm went up and back. There was a glint of flying steel, a dul
l thud, and the centipede squirmed violently, transfixed to the wall.

  ‘Good shot,’ cried Ginger warmly.

  ‘Very good indeed,’ agreed Biggles, in a peculiar voice, catching Algy’s eye.

  ‘I always kill—centipedes,’ said Sarda suavely, its he retrieved his knife and severed the body of the reptile in half a dozen places.

  Biggles shuddered. ‘It’s the best thing to do with them,’ he answered lightly. ‘Come on, chaps, let’s go and get our things out.... I’ve often wondered what centipedes are for, but now I know,’ he added quietly, a few moments later, as they walked towards the hangar.

  Ginger glanced up. ‘How so, Chief ?’ he asked.

  ‘To teach hard-working airmen to watch their step,’ murmured Biggles ambiguously. ‘When a fellow can throw a knife as well as Mr. Sarda it’s a good thing to know it. I fancy he wanted us to know, too. He must have spent many hours practising to reach such a degree of accuracy, but he didn’t waste all that time for the mere purpose of slaying centipedes, you can bet your life on that. I am instinctively suspicious of gentlemen who are as proficient in the employment of lethal weapons as our one-eyed friend, and the less we see of him the better I shall be pleased. If ever we fall out with him, and I have a feeling that we may, don’t forget to duck when his hand goes inside his shirt. To start with, he’s a liar.’

  Algy raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Didn’t you notice that patch of oil outside the hangar?’ went on Biggles. ‘It’s black, burnt-out stuff such as could only have come out of an engine, and it’s been there less than twenty-four hours, or it would be covered with a layer of dust. He said a machine hasn’t been here for six months, but I know better; a machine has been ticking over on this aerodrome within the last two days. And Mr. Sarda knows it; that’s why he doesn’t want us here. Didn’t you notice how he raised every objection he could think of to prevent us from staying here? No food, no water, but plenty of fever. Well, we shall see. Come on, let’s get our things fixed up. We’ll spend the rest of the day getting settled and start flying in the morning. Strewth! Isn’t it hot!’

  By sundown they had carried their kit and stores into the rest-house, leaving a few tins of food and chocolate in the machine as a precaution against starvation in the event of a forced landing. The rest-house, they soon perceived, was likely to prove a misnomer, for it consisted only of one large rectangular room, with a dirt floor over which innumerable ants worked conscientiously at their self-appointed tasks. The walls were built of dried mud bricks, known in Spanish America as adobe, and the roof was thatched with a thick layer of tinder-dry reeds or papyrus that had evidently been brought from a river or water-hole.