by W E Johns
‘I’m inclined to agree, but I’ve told you why it has been decided to send an aircraft, anyhow in the first place. Don’t look so glum about it. After all, you never know what you may find on an abandoned desert island.’
‘That’s just it, you don’t,’ returned Biggles grimly.
The Air Commodore smiled. ‘It might be something worth having.’
‘If I know anything it’s more likely to be something I could well do without, so I can only hope you’re right.’
‘Who will you take with you? I don’t care who goes as long as someone is left here to take care of things while you’re away.’
‘I’ll think about that, sir. I may let my chaps decide that for themselves. Or if they all want to go they can toss a coin for it.’ Biggles got up. ‘Now I’d better see about getting ready.’ He left the room and returned to his office to be met by the questioning eyes of his three police pilots.
‘What’s the drill this time?’ inquired Ginger. ‘Anything exciting?’
‘Could be. Might be simple routine,’ answered Biggles, sitting on a corner of his desk. ‘Depends on what you’d call exciting. In a nutshell it’s this. In the Indian ocean, or to be more precise the Bay of Bengal part of it, there is alleged to be an island, British owned, by the name of Jean Bonney, which has not been officially inspected for years and years. I’ve been ordered to have a dekko at it. That’s all.’
‘And why this sudden passion for dear Jean?’ asked Bertie.
‘An ex-RAF officer, apparently beloved by the gods since he’s now a millionaire, cruising in his yacht in the Bay of Bengal, sighted an unidentified aircraft beetling eastward along fifteen degrees of latitude, a course which, whether the pilot knew it or not, would have taken it over, or close to, Jean Bonney. He signalled but got no reply.’
‘So this is really a rescue job?’ put in Algy.
‘Not exactly, although it might turn out to be that. But I fancy the chief intention is no more than a snoop round to make sure somebody isn’t trying to pinch one of the few remaining bits and pieces of British Empire. I’m going as soon as the Gadfly can be got ready. Who wants to come? Don’t all holler at once.’
Three hands were raised. ‘That’s what I thought,’ Biggles said. ‘You can’t all come. I shall only take a partner.’
‘Why only one?’ Ginger wanted to know, looking surprised.
‘Two reasons. First, there would be no point in carrying unnecessary cargo on a long over-water haul. The Air Commodore insists on someone being left in charge here, anyway. Secondly, I shall feel more comfortable knowing there’s a reserve machine standing by to collect me should I find myself playing Crusoe on this lump of rock. If you all want to come you can settle it between yourselves; or to save any argument perhaps it would be better to draw lots for it.’
Biggles tore three strips of paper from his scribbling pad. On one he wrote ‘go’. The other two he left blank. He put them face down on the desk. ‘Help yourselves,’ he invited.
Ginger drew first. It was blank. ‘No luck,’ he muttered disgustedly.
Bertie drew next. He shrugged. ‘No bananas for me.’
Biggles looked at Algy. ‘Looks like you and me, chum,’ he said. ‘Sit down and I’ll give you the rest of the gen. Then we’ll see about getting organized.’
* * *
1 Gadfly. An all metal high-wing cantilever monoplane amphibian flying boat with twin 1,000 h.p. engines installed in the wing. Accommodation for two pilots and six passengers. Endurance range 2,000 miles. Retractable landing gear and hydraulic wheel brakes for land work.
2 See Biggles at World’s End.
CHAPTER 2
THE LONELY ISLE
FROM horizon to horizon the sky was blue; an immutable canopy of purest lapis lazuli. Across it the sun toiled its age-old course, hurling down heat with silent force. The sea was blue; the implacable ultramarine blue of unfathomable depths. Between the two a man-made intruder called an aeroplane droned a passage as deliberate as that of a migrating bird. In the control cabin were two men, Biggles and his life-long friend and partner, Air Police Sergeant Algy Lacey. They were dressed alike in plain khaki drill suits. Both wore tropical helmets as a protection against the sun, which near the Equator can be as tiresome in an aircraft as on the ground.
For some time neither had spoken. They had been operating the plane for a week, resting only at night, outward bound for a comparatively microscopic piece of land in a world of water; so there may not have been much left to say. They had seen no dry ground since their last port of call, Dum Dum, the aerodrome for Calcutta, in India. On the few occasions when Biggles spoke it was to ask a question; always the same question.
‘See anything?’ And so far the answer had always been the same.
‘Not a thing.’
With his eyes alternating between the instrument panel and the unbroken sweep of horizon ahead.
Biggles asked the question again now.
‘Not a thing,’ Algy answered monotonously. But this time with just a trace of anxiety, he added: ‘Bonney should be coming up — if it’s still in the same place.’
‘It’ll be in the same place, no doubt — if it’s still anywhere,’ replied Biggles. ‘I don’t trust these little remote islands. Like ships they have been known to disappear, without trace —as the saying is. More than one skipper has found himself sailing over what should be an island, with no land in sight for fifty miles around.’
‘The position of the island having been incorrectly plotted in the first place, I suppose,’ surmised Algy.
‘Not necessarily. Volcanic action or the shifting of the level of the ocean floor can do it. Dougherty Island, in the South Pacific, for instance; a fair-sized chunk of land eight miles long and eighty feet high with a big population of seals and birds. It was plotted, and sometimes visited, by several ships, but later all attempts to find it failed. Finally it had to be struck off the charts. The same thing has happened to other islands.’
‘Let’s hope that hasn’t happened to Jean Bonney.’
‘It might. It wouldn’t worry me overmuch if it did. Probably the best thing that could happen for all the use it is. But it’s too soon to talk about that. Keep your eyes open. It can’t be far away. There isn’t much of it and what there is lies low on the water.’
The conversation lapsed, but within minutes Algy had sat bolt upright, staring at something in the distance.
‘What is it?’ asked Biggles.
‘Breakers — I think. Either that or a school of whales.’
‘Where?’
‘Forty-five degrees over the port bow. Forty miles for a rough guess, although in this sort of visibility it might be more.’
Biggles eased the nose of the Gadfly round to that direction. A pause. Then he said: ‘I think you’re right. Unless we’ve discovered a new island, which isn’t very likely, it can only be Bonney. According to the chart there’s nothing else within two hundred miles. So it seems it’s still above water. When we get nearer watch for smoke. If there’s anyone there, as soon as he hears us, or spots us, he’ll light the bonfire he should have ready. That, I gather, is the usual procedure with castaways.’
‘You’re assuming if anyone is there he’ll be a castaway?’
‘I can’t imagine anyone living on Bonney from choice. Quite a few people have tried this get-away-from-it-all lark, but they soon get pretty bored with it.’
‘No one in his right mind would deliberately put himself out of reach of a doctor or a dentist,’ said Algy. ‘What can you do by yourself with an aching tooth?’
‘One fellow who tried it, I remember, a German doctor, tried to get over that difficulty by having all his teeth out and replacing them with stainless steel dentures.’
Algy grinned. ‘That must have looked enchanting. What happened to him?’
‘Nobody knows. When somebody called to see him he wasn’t there. Maybe he accidentally swallowed his teeth and bit himself to death. See any smoke?’
/>
‘No.’
‘Then it’s unlikely we shall find anyone there. If there is someone he must have heard us by now.’
The aircraft was now close enough to the island for details to be seen distinctly. It lay just as it had been described, the great ocean rollers pounding the exposed side with the regularity of a pendulum, and, on the other, the enclosed lagoon, as tranquil as the proverbial millpond, its shallow depth revealed by the different colours of the water inside the reef. In one place only, at the most seaward point, was there a slight ripple. The island itself was mostly verdant, but there was a fair amount of rock and sand. A group of coconut palms at one end, probably sprung from nuts thrown ashore by the waves, tossed their green fronds into the air.
‘Well, there it is,’ Biggles said. ‘I suppose one might call that a good example of the traditional desert island if there is such a thing.’
‘Looks pretty from up here,’ returned Algy .’Not much in the way of scenery. I can see one or two Nissen huts still standing. What’s the drill now?’ he added, as with engines retarded the machine began to lose height.
‘Just the job for anyone wanting to lead a quiet life; but I don’t think we shall find anyone here,’ murmured Biggles. ‘For a start we’ll fly round low to see, among other things, what the old airstrip looks like after an this time. Then, if there’s nothing doing, and should the weather look like holding fine, we might sit on the lagoon for a while for a breather and a cigarette. With a good anchorage we might even have a swim and stay the night to see what life is like away from the din of traffic and the stink of petrol fumes. We—’
‘Hi! Hold it. Did you see that?’ broke in Algy.
‘See what?’
‘That man. There is a man down there, after all.’
Biggles frowned. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Certain. Well, almost certain. I saw a man bolt into one of the huts, bending low as if he was trying to get out of sight.’
‘Extraordinary!’
‘If it wasn’t a man it was mighty like one. I suppose it could have been a monkey, a big one.’
‘We’re not likely to find monkeys here, large or small, unless, of course, one escaped from a ship. Watch the hut.’
‘Okay. I’m certain I saw a movement. No mistake about that.’
‘If there is a man why should he bolt? I’d have expected him to run into the open and signify joy by doing a war-dance.’
‘I wouldn’t know the answer to that. I’m only telling you what I saw.’
‘We’ll go down. Then we shall know.’
Biggles took the Gadfly down to something in the order of a hundred feet, and then, having flown round the coastline, glided over the lagoon.
‘It looks clear enough,’ he observed, a trifle dubiously. ‘One can’t always be sure. I’d bet that water is as transparent as gin. One can see the bottom from here, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a snag a few inches under the surface. We shall have to chance it. But before we do, let’s have another look at the airstrip.’
There was no difficulty in finding it because the only possible straight run of sufficient length was down what might be described as the backbone of the island; that is, the middle.
‘It looks a bit rough, but at all events it’s still there,’ observed Biggles. ‘Actually, not as rough as I’d expect it to be after so long without being used. No signs of a crashed aircraft, so it begins to look as if the one that started this nonsense didn’t end up here after all. I prefer to use the lagoon. We’ll go down and stretch our legs. Afterwards we might have a dip to get some of the sweat off our hides.’
He made another slow run across the lagoon looking down at the translucent water. The bottom, a multicoloured picture of coral, rock and sand, could be seen in wonderful detail, but as far as could be ascertained nothing broke the surface. Satisfied, he made a final run, and then with engines idling allowed the keel lightly to kiss the glassy surface and run on to cut a spreading V-shaped ripple before coming quietly to rest. An audience of gulls on the reef watched the performance but did not move.
‘Well, we’re down, anyway,’ Biggles said, surveying the scene around the shore line of the island in particular. It was mostly a jumble of rocks and boulders, although there were one or two small beaches of white coral sand.
‘I think we’ll stay on the water,’ he decided. ‘It would be easier to get off if the weather changed and we had to move in a hurry. We’ll tie up to that rock over there; it looks ready-made for a mooring. You keep a look-out for anyone moving while I take her in. I must own I’m a bit puzzled by that movement you saw; but I can’t believe there’s anyone here. If there was, surely he’d be on his way to us by now. I would have thought he wouldn’t be able to get to us fast enough.’
With Algy watching the island Biggles took the aircraft close to the rock he had mentioned and made fast, so that the machine floated lightly on water so clear, so transparent, that it might have been air. He switched off the engines and stepped ashore.
‘See anything?’ he asked Algy, who joined him.
‘Nothing. Beats me. I could have sworn I saw someone.’
‘We should soon be able to settle that beyond all doubt,’ declared Biggles. ‘I’m going to have a cigarette before I do anything else.’
He lit one and drew on it with evident satisfaction. The only sound was the confused booming of the breakers on the opposite side of the island.
‘Nice place for someone to start a holiday camp,’ remarked Algy.
Biggles did not answer. His eyes were focused on a spot on the long irregular sweep of reef.
‘What are you looking at?’ inquired Algy , happening to glance at him.
‘That ripple by the far perimeter of the reef. According to my information, or the information given to the Air Commodore, the Navy couldn’t do this job because it was impossible for a ship to get into the lagoon as there was no opening in the reef; and on most days heavy seas on the other side of the island make a landing there dangerous. If I can’t see a break in the reef there must be something wrong with my eyes. Otherwise, how comes that ripple? Surely that could only be caused by the swell outside surging in.’
‘I see what you mean,’ rejoined Algy. ‘We’re in, so what does it matter?’
‘I don’t suppose it matters much, but it struck me as odd. Someone must have made a mistake or else the reef has broken down recently. We ought to check that before we leave because if there is an entrance into the lagoon, the Admiralty should know about it so that their Sailing Directions can be corrected. It would make the island a different proposition altogether. If we have a swim I’ll have a closer look at that. But I think the first thing we’d better do is take a walk round.’
So saying, having finished his cigarette, Biggles got up and they walked together up the slight incline towards the middle of the island, the site of the wartime landing strip.
There was no difficulty in finding it. At the top of the rise the long piece of open ground lay before them.
‘It’s in a better condition than I would have supposed after twenty-odd years,’ remarked Biggles. ‘In this part of the world vegetation grows quickly, and soon covers any available space.’
He looked at the Nissen huts, situated at the extreme end of the runway.
‘You must have been mistaken when you thought you saw someone,’ he went on. ‘If there is a Crusoe living here he must be blind and deaf, or he would have seen us.’
After they had walked on a little way he stopped again, looking at something near his feet.
‘Hello, what’s this?’ He pointed to the stump of what had obviously been a young palm tree. ‘If no one has been here since the war how did this happen? That tree wasn’t blown down. Look for yourself. It was cut with a sharp axe, and not long ago. It’s a clean cut, and it’s still comparatively fresh. Anyway, that wasn’t done twenty years ago. And I’ll tell you something else. Unless there has been a gale the man who trimmed the tree must have dra
gged it away. There it is, lying over there, clear of the runway, you’ll notice. See what I’m getting at?’
‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ Algy answered slowly. ‘The strip has been used recently.’
‘I don’t know about that, but someone has certainly been busy here since the place was last used officially. Look at the runway. It’s clear. Clear of anything like an obstruction. I’m getting a feeling that something has been going on here.’
Algy looked puzzled. ‘I don’t get it. If someone came here in a boat, where’s the boat? And why come here? If the plane that was seen heading this way came here, where’s the plane? It isn’t here or we’d see it, whole or in pieces. You couldn’t hide an aircraft on an almost bare piece of ground this size.’
Biggles thought for a moment, subconsciously lighting another cigarette. He looked at Algy with a smile of amusement. ‘It looks as if there could be a pretty little mystery to solve here if we felt like spending time on it. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out who came here. He wouldn’t sleep in the open when he could put a roof over his head. If he used one of the Nissen huts he must surely have left traces; a clue or two for us to work on. Not that it’s important. I can’t see what harm anyone could do here. Let’s have a look at the huts. We needn’t spend much time on it.’
‘What’s the hurry?’
‘No hurry — at present. But in this part of the world there can occur a nasty thing called a hurricane, a cyclone, typhoon — call it what you like. I’d hate to be caught here in one. Nor need we wonder what the plane would look like when the wind and waves had finished with it.’
