Biggles and the Deep Blue Sea

by W E Johns

  ‘I’d make a small bet that the bloke who obviously has kept the runway clear is still here,’ stated Algy as they walked on towards the huts. ‘I don’t imagine things.’

  ‘Then all I can say, pal, is this. If you’re right he’s up to no good. Otherwise why should he hide himself? Honest men don’t run away from visitors, certainly in a place like this.’

  ‘I must say it’d be queer behaviour for a genuine castaway,’ admitted Algy.

  ‘I didn’t say he was a genuine castaway. If there is anyone here he came here of his own free will, knowing where he was coming, and why.’

  Nothing more was said. They walked on, their eyes on the huts still some distance in front of them. They stayed on the runway as the easiest way to reach the weather-stained semi-circular corrugated iron structures. They remarked on more places where clearly an effort had been made to keep the strip free from obstructions. There was still no sign of anyone. The only things that moved were an occasional gull and the gently swaying fronds of the distant palms. The only sound was the wash of the breakers on the beach, like the confused murmur of traffic on a main road, All around lay the ocean, calm, blue, indifferent to the affairs of men.

  They reached the nearest of the huts. The door was wide open, they looked inside. It was empty except for a quantity of refuse. They went on to the next. Again the door was open, propped open with a lump of coral. They glanced in. They stopped. They stared. Just inside, seated on a camp stool, was a man. He did not move except to glance up from something he was doing with a large, rather beautiful sea shell.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he said quietly, casually, in an educated voice.

  After a pause to recover from his breath-taking astonishment Biggles answered, just as politely: ‘No, thank you. We thought we might be able to help you.’

  ‘I’m much obliged, but I’m not in need of assistance.’ was the reply, given rather curtly. The man continued his occupation with the shell.

  Biggles looked at Algy. Algy, eyes saucering, looked at Biggles. What more was there to say, since the man had made it abundantly clear that he was not inclined for conversation?

  Biggles touched Algy on the arm as a signal for them to move away.

  CHAPTER 3

  CLARENCE COLLINGWOOD CRUSOE

  ALGY had made a comprehensive inspection of the man before moving away. He judged his age to be in the late thirties or early forties. He was clean-shaven with finely drawn features, a face that might have been described as artistic, or intellectual, an impression enhanced by large horn-rimmed spectacles. His hair was black, rather long and brushed well back, although that did not prevent a loose piece from drooping over a high forehead. It was evident from his well-modulated voice that he was a man of education and refinement.

  If there was anything surprising about him it was his clothes, which were out of keeping with the rest of his appearance; the more so considering where he was, where a pair of shorts or even a swimsuit would have been sufficient protection. They comprised a woollen shirt under indescribably dirty denims, and, on his feet, heavy leather boots. So while his face and hands were those of a man of culture, even refinement, his attire was that of a navvy.

  ‘Now what about it?’ inquired Algy, with a note of triumph in his voice, when they had walked a little way. ‘Was I right or was I right? I was sure there was someone here.’

  ‘Okay — okay, so you were right,’ retorted Biggles. ‘There’s no need to make a song about it.’

  They halted by what apparently was an attempt to make a small vegetable patch, not a very successful one judging by the quality of the produce — salads, tomatoes and the like.

  ‘What do you make of him?’ asked Algy.

  ‘My first impression is that we’ve either struck a nut case or a slick phoney. He’s a bit too smug, too suave, to be what he’d like us to think he is. But he’s not fooling me. I catch a fishy smell about this set-up, and before I leave I’m going to find out what’s causing it. He’s living here... there’s no doubt about that. There’s a modern cook-stove in that hut he’s using, and I noticed a bed at the far end. I’d say he’s been here some little time. These vegetables he’s trying to grow are proof of that. They also suggest he intends to stay. I may be quite wrong about him, but of one thing at least I am certain, apart from the obvious fact that he doesn’t want us here. He’s no genuine castaway. At least, no shipwrecked mariner I ever heard of walked up the beach out of the sea humping a bed and a metal stove.’

  ‘Did you notice the mess his clothes were in? All those dirty streaks as if he had been digging? Why wear clothes at all in a place like this?’

  ‘I’d say for protection.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘What are we going to do — push off and leave him to it?’

  ‘Not on your life.’

  ‘He’s hoping that by giving us the cold shoulder we’ll go.’

  ‘That’s what makes me suspicious there’s more here than meets the eye — rock, sand, coral and a few windblown palms.’

  ‘So what do we do? You’re the boss.’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve thought about it. If our uncivil friend in the hut fancies playing R. Crusoe Esquire, fair enough, that’s all right with me; but that doesn’t excuse him for not offering hospitality to guests, even uninvited ones, as common courtesy requires. The fact that he has failed to do so makes it plain that, as you say, he doesn’t want us here. Why not?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Because there’s something here he’d rather we knew nothing about. There can’t be any other reason.’

  ‘Could he be pearling, having discovered an untouched bed of oysters in the lagoon?’

  ‘You don’t need denims to dive for oysters. No, it isn’t pearls. If it was we’d have seen oyster shells where the fish had been chucked in the sun to rot out. That’s the usual practice of handling a quantity. I can’t see him sitting opening oysters one at a time with a knife. Besides, we’d smell ‘em. Rotting oysters stink to high heaven. That’s not the answer. I’m going to find out what it is, though.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By asking him a few straight questions. He’s not going to brush me off as if the island was his own private property.’

  ‘What if he refuses to answer them?’

  ‘It will prove he has something to hide. There’s no need for an honest man to conceal anything.’

  ‘He’s doing something with a shell now.’

  ‘It isn’t an oyster shell, if that’s what you still have in mind. Let’s go back and have another word with him.’

  ‘Just a jiffy. Let’s have a look in this next hut. If I’m not mistaken it’s the one I saw him come out of as we arrived.’

  They walked the few yards to the next hut. The door was shut, but not fastened. Algy pushed it open wide to let in the daylight.

  At first glance it appeared to be empty, or contain nothing more interesting than a heap of dry palm frond spines that might have been a supply of firewood. Algy would have turned away, but Biggles went in and began to dismantle the pile. He hadn’t far to go to reveal what lay underneath. First he pulled out a spade, then a pointed iron crowbar. Looking up at Algy with a whimsical smile he said: ‘You never know what you might find until you look. Unless I’ve been misled all my life you don’t find implements of this sort lying about on lonely desert islands. Nor do you normally find ‘em on board ship. It would need more imagination than I’ve got to visualize a castaway coming ashore with a load of ironmongery under his arm. And you don’t want this sort of tackle to open any oyster that I’ve ever met.’

  ‘He must have hidden these things in a hurry when he saw us coming,’ conjectured Algy. ‘That was when I spotted him.’

  ‘I’d say that’s a reasonable guess,’ agreed Biggles. ‘Why hide them?’

  ‘Because he didn’t want us to see ‘em.’

  ‘Right again. Why didn’t he want us to see ‘em
?’

  Algy shook his head. ‘You’ll have to answer that one yourself.’

  ‘Very well. They might have led to awkward questions, that’s why.’

  On the way out he stooped to pick up something from the floor. ‘Hello! What’s this?’ It looked like a piece of dry mud, dark greyish in colour.

  ‘Is there anything remarkable about it?’ inquired Algy. ‘To me it looks like a very ordinary lump of dirt.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be remarkable if there was more of it instead of just the one piece. The floor’s plain sand. There’s nothing outside except sand. How, then, did this get here? It didn’t come under its own steam. I’ll tell you how it got here. It was brought. By whom? As there’s only one man here, we can guess it in one. Why it was brought I don’t know, but I may be able to work that out when I’ve had a closer look at it. For the moment it can wait. It’s only a little thing and may mean nothing; but as a wiser man than me once said, in life it’s often the little things that count. Now let’s have another word with the sole population of Jean Bonney Island.’

  They returned to the first hut. The man was still sitting there, doing something, or making a pretence of doing something, with the shell. He hardly troubled to look up when they reappeared in the doorway, but he said, with biting sarcasm: ‘Well, have you finished your snooping?’

  ‘Far from it,’ returned Biggles smoothly. ‘I’ve only just started. What are you doing with that shell?’

  ‘It isn’t a shell. It’s a fossil. I happen to be a biologist.’

  ‘I see. You don’t mind if I ask you one or two questions?’

  ‘I do mind. I object strongly to this intrusion, even more to an unwarranted interrogation. Run away. You can see I’m busy.’

  ‘You won’t mind telling me your name?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Call it curiosity.’

  ‘You can go to the devil.’

  ‘You seem to be a very churlish fellow,’ accused Biggles. ‘Have you some reason for withholding your name? In the circumstances it’s a perfectly natural question, you must agree.’

  ‘If it will make you any happier to know it, it’s Clarence Collingwood.’

  ‘Thank you. Why have you come here?’

  ‘I happen to like it. Isn’t that a good enough reason?’

  ‘How did you get here ?’

  Collingwood frowned. ‘I’ve told you I object to being questioned. I don’t know who you are or where you’re going, so will you please press on and mind your own business?’

  ‘This happens to be my business.’

  This caused the man to look up sharply. ‘And just what is your business?’

  ‘This island, in case you don’t know, is British. Word has reached London that some unauthorized person may be here and I’ve been sent out to investigate.’

  ‘Oh! So that’s it. What busybody started that rumour?’

  ‘Apparently it wasn’t a rumour. An aircraft was seen on course for the island and it was thought the pilot might be marooned here. Had that been the case I would have taken him off.’

  ‘I have no wish to be taken off.’

  ‘So I gather. Look, Mr Collingwood. I’ve put my cards on the table, why don’t you show yours?’

  ‘I have nothing more to say. If I am content to stay here it need concern no one else. When I came here the island was uninhabited and likely to remain so. How long are you going to stay here?’

  ‘Till I’ve found out what you’re doing.’

  ‘I see,’ Collingwood said coldly.

  ‘Did you know when you came here that the island was uninhabited?’ pressed Biggles.

  Collingwood hesitated. ‘I thought it might be.’

  ‘You mean you hoped it would be.’

  ‘Put it that way if you like.’

  ‘You’d been here before, then?’

  No answer.

  ‘Would I be right in saying you’re an aeroplane pilot?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘During the war?’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Just now you used an expression that started in the RAF. You told me to press on.’

  ‘Clever, aren’t you?’ sneered Collingwood. ‘Very well. I flew here during the war. I liked the place, and when it was demobilized I decided to live here. Now trot along and pester someone else with your damned questions.’

  ‘Just one more,’ Biggles said quietly. He felt in his pocket and produced the lump of mud. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘I think it’s phosphate.’

  ‘Is it useful for anything?’

  ‘I believe it’s sometimes incorporated in fertilizers.’

  ‘Is that why you wanted it?’

  ‘I thought a little might improve the quality of the soil in my little garden. All the ground here, what little there is, is impoverished. I happen to be a vegetarian. That’s all I’m going to say. Now leave me alone before I lose my patience with you.’

  ‘Okay, if that’s how you want it,’ replied Biggles calmly. ‘But don’t get the idea you’ve seen the last of me.’

  ‘So you’re going to stay here?’

  ‘For a little while, maybe.’

  ‘On the lagoon?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Good. Then I wish you joy,’ Collingwood said with a faint smile.

  Biggles nudged Algy. ‘Come on.’ He turned and walked away.

  Algy overtook him. ‘Now what do you make of him?’ he asked in a puzzled voice.

  ‘I don’t know what to think, and that’s a fact,’ admitted Biggles. ‘He may be one of these cranks one sometimes meets, in which case there may be some truth in what he says.’

  ‘Could he be telling the truth?’

  ‘Some of it, perhaps; but I suspect not all of it. It doesn’t fit like it should.’

  ‘Where are we going now?’

  ‘Back to the lagoon. We’ve done enough for one day. I need time to think. Moreover, I’m getting an empty feeling inside.’

  ‘Then we’re going to stay here?’

  ‘Tonight, anyway. Maybe for a day or two. We’ll see how things go. Tomorrow we’ll take a walk round. I shall be interested to see where that lump of phosphate came from.’

  ‘Do you believe it is phosphate?’

  ‘Could be. I’m no expert. I’d have taken it for a piece of rough sandstone with a little silica in it. Not the sort of thing one would expect to find here, but I suppose it could happen.’

  ‘If it was sandstone it would be no use as a fertilizer.’

  ‘No use at all.’

  ‘Then he might have been lying.’

  ‘His explanation of why he wanted it didn’t sound very convincing to me. He’s been here before, so he must have known what conditions were like. He brought a spade and a crowbar. He must have brought some packets of seeds, which suggests he knew he was going to be here for some time. Why not bring some fertilizer? Of course, he may have known there was some here.’

  ‘You don’t need a crowbar to dig a garden, except possibly to shift rocks,’ stated Algy.

  ‘That thought struck me. Why hide the tools, anyway? He didn’t want us to see them.’ Biggles shook his head. ‘No, there’s something here that doesn’t add up. Considering Collingwood had to think fast, for the last thing he could have expected was visitors, he had a plausible tale ready by the time we got to him; but not quite plausible enough.’

  They had reached the top of the little rise that looked down on the lagoon. A slab of rock had been stood on end in the manner of a tombstone. For which reason Biggles gave it a second glance in passing. Seeing an inscription on it he stopped. On it had been roughly painted, in letters that had faded but were still just discernible: Jean Bonney. John Grant. Master. October 21, 1821. ‘So this is where our worthy Scots mariner, long since gathered to his fathers, staked his claim,’ soliloquized Biggles, and passed on.

  CHAPTER 4

  NIGHT ALARM

  THEY found the aircraft
just as they had left it.

  ‘I think it would be advisable to find a safer mooring, as we’re going to stay here for a little while,’ Biggles said. ‘We might run her up on one of those little sandy beaches and peg her down. On the water a stiff breeze might cause her to swing and buckle a wing tip.’

  Algy agreed. ‘You know, I keep thinking of that last remark Collingwood made. You said we’d stay on the lagoon. He said he wished us joy.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I didn’t like the way he said it. Anyhow, why should he wish us joy?’

  Biggles shrugged. ‘Just being sarcastic, I suppose. If you’ll brew up we’ll have a mug of tea. You might open some cans of lovely grub at the same time.’ He took the piece of alleged phosphate from his pocket, put it on the rock and began throwing off his clothes.

  ‘Why, what are you going to do?’

  ‘Have a quick dip. Then I shall walk along the reef to see if that surge of water is really an entrance.’ Biggles continued undressing until he stood only in his short underpants. He did not take off his light canvas shoes.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Algy sharply. ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘There was a heck of a big swirl over there. You can still see the ripples.’ He pointed. ‘It might be a shark.’

  ‘Unless there’s a passage through the reef a shark couldn’t get into the lagoon. If there was one inside we’d see his dorsal fin. A shark usually advertises his presence. More likely it was a shoal of small fish near the surface.’ So saying he took a header into the tepid water.

  Algy watched for a few seconds and then went on board to prepare a meal.

  After a few strokes Biggles came out of the water, shook himself, walked to the place where the reef joined the mainland and set off along it for the point of interest; a matter of perhaps a hundred yards. The exposed surface of the coral was rough and uneven, as he knew it would be, for which reason he had kept his shoes on, aware that living coral, cutting the skin, can be poisonous and make a wound not easy to heal. After going some way he went to the extreme outside edge of the reef and looked down, only to step back quickly with a twinge of vertigo when he perceived that the sailor who had discovered the island had been right about the depth of water there. It was like looking over the edge of a sheer cliff, with this difference: here there was no visible bottom. It was like looking into space. In the crystal atmosphere the water might not have been there. First there was pale blue light; but it became darker, darker, darker, to merge into deepest indigo. Then nothingness.