50 Biggles and the Pirate Treasure

by Captain W E Johns

  'As you know,' continued the Air Commodore, 'one of the plagues of Africa is the locust, which in a few hours can turn a verdant landscape into a howling desert. The pest has to a certain extent been checked, but never eradicated, by the use of flame guns on the ground and the spraying of poison on the swarms from the air. It was realized that what really was needed was an insecticide of sufficient strength to kill the pests even though it was discharged from a spray gun at a considerable altitude.

  This would enable a single machine to deal quickly with a big swarm, which might cover some hundreds of square miles. One of the big chemical firms undertook the job, and soon produced the very thing that was needed. But ether was a snag. The stuff, which was named Vegicide, certainly killed the locusts, but it also killed everything else, by which I mean the vegetation. In fact, it poisoned the ground, so that nothing would grow in it for some time. However, this difficulty was not insuperable. The swarm could be sprayed from the air when it was passing over ground already sterile, and as you know, there's plenty of that in North Central Africa. That would save the crops farther south. Twelve ten-gallon drums of Vegicide were therefore produced to give it a trial.

  It was shipped to Nairobi via Mombasa. Now here is a point. Because the stuff was dangerous to handle on account of its poisonous properties, to say nothing of it being highly inflammable, to discourage anyone from tinkering with it the drums were painted red, with the label, "

  Explosive. Stow away from engines." This may have defeated our object, for four drums were stolen from the dock at Mombasa, the thief supposing, perhaps, that the contents were alcohol, or methylated spirit, or something of that nature. Be that as it may, the real purpose of the stuff was soon discovered, and as it is now being used is doing far more harm than the locusts. It is destroying the natives' crops, presumably in the hope of starving them into a state of rebellion. The four drums that were taken would destroy an immense tract of ground. Worse, by analysing a sample, more could be produced.'

  'Sounds nasty,' murmured Biggles. 'And you've no idea who's playing this dirty game?'

  'None at all. But we now have what might turn out to be a clue that could put us on the track of those responsible. Shortly after the Vegicide was found to be missing, a curious message, sent out by an aircraft, came over the air. It was picked up by several stations.

  A weak voice appealed to anyone British to go to the airfield at Klookerstein. The voice became weaker and faded to silence. Klookerstein, by the way, is an old airstrip in North Central Africa, miles from anywhere. A plane was flown out but could discover nothing wrong.'

  'Have you learned who sent the signal ? '

  'No.'

  'What's this airfield doing there, anyway ? '

  'By a strange coincidence it's being used as an experimental base by people investigating methods of destroying the locust plague. The man in charge is an engineer named de Goot. He has with him a chemist, and a doctor named Frankl who has made a study of the migration of insects. The place is, in fact, on the edge of the locust belt. De Goot, apparently, is working on a power-driven spray gun, out of which he reckons to make a lot of money. He may be genuine, but this engineering job might, of course, be a cover for other activities. I don't overlook that. He has two old Moths which he probably bought cheaply.'

  'Does he fly them himself?'

  think so, but most of his flying has been done by a South African named Harley.'

  'Felix Harley, by any chance ? '

  'That's the man. Know him ? '

  'I knew him in the war. Good chap. There's nothing phoney about him, anyhow. What had he to say ? '

  'He couldn't say anything, for the simple reason he wasn't there. He's disappeared.'

  'In what circumstances ? '

  'According to de Goot he pinched the pay-roll and bolted, taking one of the planes - a Gipsy Moth, to be specific.'

  Biggles shook his head. 'That doesn't sound like the man I knew.'

  'The police, without evidence, could hardly call de Goot a liar.'

  'I suppose not. Was a search made for Harley? He might have had a forced landing.'

  The Air Commodore shrugged. 'I don't know about that.'

  'He might have been the pilot who sent out that mysterious signal - since you say you haven't been able to find out who did.'

  'The same thought struck me. That's why I think it would be a good thing if you went out and had a look round.'

  'How far is this airfield from the district where the crops have been destroyed ? '

  'About a hundred miles.'

  'Have you any other gen about these people at Klookerstein ? '

  'Practically none. De Goot, from all accounts, is a taciturn sort of fellow.'

  'I'll go and have a look at him,' promised Biggles. 'If he doesn't like us he'll soon show it: and the man who is killing the natives' crops must hate us, for it's hard to see any other motive than to cause us more trouble in Africa than we have already. I'll get along.'

  Two aircraft, a Proctor and an Auster, droned at a sober speed across the weary waste of Africa that lies northeast of Kenya. In the Proctor were Biggles and Ginger: in the Auster, Algy and Bertie. Both machines, modified for police work, were equipped with long range tanks and high frequency radio telephony. They were, in fact, two of the machines that had been used in the search for the fanatical negro who had called himself The Black Elephant.

  Biggles's plan, if it could be called a plan, was to fly direct to Klookerstein in the Proctor and begin his enquiries there. If the people were willing to co-operate, so well and good.

  If they were not, then they would lay themselves open to suspicion. Algy and Bertie, in the slow-flying Auster, were to search the area for signs of the missing pilot Harley.

  Biggles thought they had a reasonable chance of finding him, for if Harley had been sufficiently badly hurt to die or faint in his cockpit, assuming that it was he who had sent out the strange message, he could not have flown far from his base. As things turned out this suimise proved to be correct.

  'All right. Carry on,' Biggles told Algy over the radio when they were within fifty miles of the objective. 'Concentrate on the eastern side.

  Harley would head towards the nearest settlements, not away from them, if he was hurt. I'll pick you up later if you don't hear from me.'

  The Auster turned away to begin its search. The Proctor went on, and a quarter of an hour later put down its wheels on the sun-dried grass of the Klookerstein airstrip, its arrival being watched by several men, both black and white, from the entrance of a canvas hangar that still showed the brown and green of war-time camouflage. Inside the hangar Ginger could just make out the shape of a Puss Moth. There were one or two other tents, smaller ones, and a native compound. A wind-stocking hung limply from a pole.

  None of the watchers moved as the Proctor taxied up and its crew got down. They all stood watching, and from their attitudes Ginger sensed at once an atmosphere of guarded hostility — or, at least, it was clear that the Proctor was not welcome.

  As he walked up, Biggles gave no indication that he was aware of anything unusual. Nor did his attitude change when he was greeted with a surly:

  'If you're looking for petrol we'

  ve none to spare.'

  'As it happens I'm not looking for petrol,' answered Biggles evenly. 'I'm looking for a friend of mine named Harley.'

  'He's gone,' was the curt reply.

  'Do you know where he is ? '

  'No, I wish I did. He took one of my machines, and the pay-roll.'

  Biggles looked at the spokesman. 'Are you by any chance Mr. de Goot ? '

  'General de Goot.'

  'Sorry. You don't mind if we stretch our legs for a little while ? '

  De Goot hesitated. 'Don't make it too long. We've just had word that a big locust swarm is heading south and we plan to intercept it. That's what we're here for.'

  Ginger, his eyes active, strolled on a little way, ostensibly to get out of the glare o
f the sun, but really, as he had been instructed by Biggles, to note anything of interest. He did not fail to notice that he was followed by several spear-armed natives.

  There were other items of interest, too. Conspicuous, so conspicuous that Biggles must have seen them, were several small areas of blackened grass, as if fires had been lighted on those particular spots. But there was no wood ash. Equally conspicuous were four black-painted drums. In the ordinary way he would have taken them for oil drums. The ground under each was black. Walking slowly past them he noticed places where they had been scratched, or knocked. Under the black the colour was red. This was all he really needed to know, for there was no doubt in his mind as to what the drums contained, or had contained.

  On his way back his questing eyes spotted something else. Close by was a tamarisk tree.

  A scar showed white on the trunk. Something had struck it horizontally, tearing off a piece of bark. The only thing he could think of likely to make such a mark was a bullet.

  He had seen bullet marks on trees before. It looked as if there had been shooting at Klookerstein. It was from about this spot, he decided, that Harley had made his attempt to escape.

  Strolling back to rejoin Biggles he became aware that relations had disimproved, for he heard de Goot say: 'We want no interfering Britishers here.'

  Replied Biggles calmly: 'We'll go when we're ready. I've come some way to find Harley.

  Why didn't you go and look for him yourself — or report him to the police?'

  There was no answer to this question. It was evident that de Goot and his companions were impatient for them to go. No hospitality was offered. On the contrary, it was evident from the expressions on the faces of everyone that if departure was long delayed the sullen truce would break down.

  Biggles no doubt realized this and decided to avoid open conflict, for he said, casually: '

  Oh well, we'll get along,' and turned towards the Proctor. Ginger followed him, feeling more than slightly uncomfortable, half expecting to feel the impact of a spear, or a bullet, in his back. However, nothing of the sort happened, and the Proctor took off still watched by hostile eyes from the hangar.

  As soon as they were in the air Ginger reported what he had seen.

  'Good work,' complimented Biggles. 'I haven't the slightest doubt that these are the people we're looking for. I never saw a nastier-looking lot. An analysis of the contents of one of those drums would be all the evidence required to put them out of business; but we should have been asking for it had we tried to take one. There were too many of them. See if you can contact Algy.'

  The Auster's call signal was soon picked up, and presently a red signal flare soared up into the air. Turning towards it they saw the machine on some open ground near an area of mixed trees and scrub. Algy told them it was safe to land, so Biggles went down and joined him. Even before they landed Ginger realized why the Auster had so soon been able to find the crashed Gipsy Moth, for leading to the scrub was a quarter of a mile of dead black grass.

  'We've found him,' said Algy briefly. 'He died in the machine. He'd switched off, so it didn't catch fire. There are bullet holes in the airframe and fabric, and there's dry blood on the floor of the cockpit. He was shot all right.'

  'From the air the crash looked to be burnt out!'

  'He had a tank of Vegicide on board. The lead must have broken when he struck, and everything is dead for thirty yards round.'

  Ì'd better have a look. You stay here, Ginger.' Biggles pushed his way into the scrub.

  When he came out his face was pale and his expression grim. 'A plain case of murder,' he said quietly. 'Two bullets - perhaps more - struck him.

  They'll still be in the body. The ballistic experts will identify the gun that fired the shots and I think I know where we can find it.'

  `Klookerstein ? '

  'Where else? There's quite a bunch of them there, too many for us to handle alone, although they may not all know what's been going on. Poor Harley must have rumbled it.

  No doubt he said what he thought and then tried to get away to report the matter. They must have shot him as he got into the machine, but they couldn't prevent him taking off.

  He knew he'd never get to Nairobi so he broadcast a signal, switched off, and in trying to land, piled up. His signal was vague, but when you think about it what else could he say? He had no time for long explanations.

  However, the word Klookerstein was enough.

  Let's get back to Nairobi. This place needs cleaning up.' He walked over to the Proctor, and was about to get in when from no great distance came the roar of an aircraft, flying fast and low. A Puss Moth burst into view.

  For a moment everyone stood still, staring, as the Puss suddenly lined up towards them.

  'He's pulling out,' muttered Ginger.

  Then, from below the machine, an oily black substance was squirted downwards.

  'Look out!' shouted Biggles. 'Run.'

  For a moment all was confusion. Biggles jumped into the cockpit. Ginger fell in behind him, but before he could get into his seat the Proctor was on the move, bumping tail-up over the ground, with the door still open, as it gathered speed on a course at right angles to the Puss Moth, which roared past behind them. 'What happened to the others ? ' rapped out Biggles. Ìf that stuff was Vegicide, it's poison.'

  Ginger, trying to see out, nearly fell out. A smoking trail marked the line of flight of the Moth. It passed close to the Auster. Algy and Bertie were under the trees, peering out. '

  They're all right,' he told Biggles, with the Proctor slowing down.

  'Where's the Puss ? '

  Looking, Ginger saw the machine racing on, belching a hideous black cloud. At first he supposed this to be intentional, but a streamer of yellow flame made him catch his breath. 'He's on fire,' he yelled.

  'Impossible.'

  'But he is, I tell you.' Ginger's voice rose to a shrill crescendo. 'He's into the ground.

  What a mess!'

  Biggles turned the Proctor, taxied back a little way, stopped and jumped down. 'How on earth did that happen ? ' he cried in a voice of amazement, as he stared at the blazing wreck nearly a mile away.

  'Don't ask me,' answered Ginger helplessly.

  Algy and Bertie got into the Auster, and taxi-ing quickly across the tract of devastation, joined them. Mgy was looking shaken.

  'How did he set himself on fire?' asked Biggles wonderingly.

  'He didn't,' replied Algy shortly. 'I did it.'

  'What are you talking about?' demanded Biggles. 'How could you do it ? '

  'With this,' returned Algy simply, holding out his Very pistol. 'I had it loaded in case you didn't see my first flare. When I saw the Puss was going to drench us with that stuff I let drive a flare across his nose to make him swerve. As you'd expect, at the rate he was travelling I was behind him. I'm sure I didn't hit him. That's what I don't understand.'

  'The flare must have fired the Vegicide, and it caught up with him,' said Biggles thoughtfully. 'The Air Commodore said the stuff was highly inflammable.'

  'Of course. I didn't think of that.'

  'There's no question of getting near that crash,' asserted Biggles. 'The grass is on fire all round it and likely to spread. We'll get back to Nairobi and report it, and arrange for the rest of the gang to be picked up. They had only one machine left, and now that's gone, so they've no hope of getting away. Come on, let's get mobile.'

  BIGGLES NETS A FISH

  As soon as Biggles entered the office of his chief, Mr Commodore Raymond of the Special Air Section at Scotland Yard, he knew that something serious was under discussion. Major Charles, of Security Intelligence, whom he knew well, was there, and three other men, none of whom he recognized. One was an army colonel; another wore the uniform of an American major, and the third, an elderly man in civilian clothes, he judged to be a senior civil servant.

  'Come in, Bigglesworth,' greeted the Air Commodore seriously. 'You and Major Charles need no introduction. This is M
ajor Booth of the Inter-Zonal Security Section, Western Germany.' Turning to the civilian he went on: 'This is Professor Frail, head of the atomic sub-station at Heatherstone Moor, and' - indicating the last member of the group - 'this is Colonel Barclay, one of those responsible for the safety of the Harwell atomic pile and its satellite stations. As you will already have supposed we are having a spot of bother.

  You may be able to help us. Sit down and I'll run over the main points of the business.

  The trouble started in Major Booth's department. No doubt he will prompt me if I do not make things clear.'

  'I guess I've brought a tough nut for you to crack,' the American told Biggles lugubriously, as they all sat down. 'Having been in the New York State police for nearly twenty years I reckoned I was pretty tough myself, but that was kid's stuff compared with this Iron Curtain racket.'