by W E Johns
‘Maybe it took the machine for an overgrown duck.’
‘This is no joking matter. At least, I don’t think you’ll find anything funny about it if, with that thing in the water, we have to dive to get the anchor free. Be a pal and fetch me a drink. I’ve put in some hard work and I’m as dry as a chip.’
Algy brought a mug of orange juice. ‘I believe swordfish have been known to break off their swords in the bottoms of moving ships, but I’ve never heard of a shark trying anything like that.’ Biggles emptied the mug in one swig. ‘That’s better.’
‘What about you?’ inquired Algy. ‘Did you find anything?’
‘Plenty. Too much. So much that it’s got me completely foxed. I thought the first thing I found was the answer to everything. Now I don’t know what to think. Sit down and I’ll tell you all about it. I fancy this is going to shake you.’
‘You’re not putting the plane back on the water?’
‘Not tonight. Now it’s ashore it might as well stay ashore. It simply means we shall have to keep watch.’
They sat on the sand facing the ridge so that no one could approach the aircraft without being seen.
‘Don’t talk to me about desert islands,’ grumbled Biggles. ‘What with decapods, sharks, and, as I believe, crooks, this one seems to have got the lot. Listen. I’ll tell you.’ He lit a cigarette.
CHAPTER 8
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
‘YOU remember that as a result of our cable being cut we decided there must be someone else on the island,’ began Biggles. ‘Well, we were right. I’ve seen him. He’s a coloured type. Indian, I think. But I’ll come back to that presently. We’ll start at the beginning and take things in order. The first eye-opener I dropped on, at the far end of the island near the coconuts, was a nice little plantation of Indian hemp.’
‘The drug! The stuff from which they get hashish?’
‘That’s what they call it in Egypt and the Middle East, where it’s smoked. The dope has different names in various countries according to how it’s prepared and used. In India, where it more or less takes the place of tobacco in England, it’s eaten, not smoked. It can be Bhang, or Ganglia, which is simply dried hemp leaves, or a manufactured product called Charas. I don’t know what the position is there now, but when I was a boy it was allowed to be sold in the open market, although only in very small packets. Too much of it will send you round the bend.’
‘Then why did we allow it in India at all?’
‘I can only suppose that any attempt to suppress it would start a black market. As with other drugs, addicts will pay anything for it. They must have it at any price. For smugglers it’s big business. I once saw some which the police had seized. It was in bricks about ten inches by five and an inch and a half thick. It’s dark, brown, waxy stuff that smells a bit like resin. That’s when it has been pressed. The leaves are gathered and rubbed to powder, then pressed into cakes.’
‘So Collingwood’s a drug addict,’ murmured Algy. ‘Well—- well. I suppose he thought that here it’d be safe to grow as much as he liked.’
‘I didn’t say he was a drug addict although, naturally, that was my first impression. I must say I was surprised because Collingwood showed no signs of it. They usually do, and the longer they go on the more obvious it becomes. When I remembered the queer smell in the hut, and my memory reminded me it was the odour of hashish, I thought I’d found the answer to what Collingwood was doing here; but now I’m not sure, unless he’s running two rackets at the same time, which I must admit doesn’t sound likely. One would suppose one would be enough in a place like this. But with a fellow like Collingwood one never knows what he will get up to if the fancy takes him.’
‘You’re not going to tell me you’ve found something else,’ Algy said in a surprised voice.
‘I certainly am. Listen to this. Perhaps you can make something of it. I can’t. Just this side of the coconuts there’s a depression in the ground, a little hollow. You might almost call it a short valley, with steep sides, one side in particular. Collingwood came along. I lost him for a little while. This is where he must have gone, although I didn’t realize it at the time. It couldn’t have been anywhere else or I must have seen him. And it must have been there that he picked up his Indian pal, who, incidentally, came back here with him. After they’d gone I back-tracked them to the valley and found they’d been digging. That would account for the dirty denims Collingwood wears. It isn’t the first time he’s been there.’
‘What on earth could he be digging for?’
‘I still haven’t a clue, but the stuff he’s burrowing into is the same as the piece I picked up in the hut. He called it phosphate.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘Frankly, I just don’t know. I wouldn’t have thought it worth anyone’s while to dig for anything except a precious metal on an island so far from anywhere. What he’s done — or the Indian may have done it — is drive a horizontal shaft into the bank. It’s behind some bushes, so you wouldn’t suspect it was there. The thing, which is really no more than a rough tunnel just big enough to get into, looks like a sort of mine. Without a light I couldn’t see much of it, but I’m thinking of going back with a torch.’
‘You’re sure it isn’t a natural cave?’
‘It didn’t look like that to me. There was a tool there that must have been used for digging; otherwise how would it get there?’
‘Could Collingwood have got wind of a treasure you know, a pirate hoard sort of thing — being buried on the island?’
‘It’s just possible; but why should a pirate, unless he was crazy, dig a horizontal hole in a cliff when it would be easier to make a hole in the ground, drop his loot in and cover it up? No, this doesn’t look to me like a pirate treasure hunt.’
‘Gold ore?’
‘The stuff isn’t metallic ore, I’m pretty sure of that.’
‘Diamonds?’
‘Possibly, but I can’t imagine diamonds being found on an island of this sort. As I told you, the thing has got me completely foxed. There’s only one thing I am sure of, and it’s this. Collingwood isn’t digging that hole just for fun, or to give himself something to do. He’s after something, something which he must know, or has jolly good reason to believe, is there. He’s no fool; you can take that from me.’
‘Could it be pitch-blende, the stuff that yields radium? I believe that’s luminous in the dark.’
‘So are several things. I’ve never seen any pitchblende, so I wouldn’t know. I’ve never heard of it being found in this part of the world, although that, of course, isn’t proof that it doesn’t occur here, or in this part of Asia. It may be awaiting discovery, as has happened elsewhere. Actually, I believe pitch-blende is uranium oxide, although I may be wrong in that; so as uranium has a particular value to the lunatic nuclear bombmakers who seem determined to blow the world to smithereens, that might be the answer. But it doesn’t make sense. None of this crazy business makes sense. After all, if there is something precious here, why the devil should Collingwood fiddle about with poisonous muck like hashish?’
‘Shall I tell you what I think?’ Algy said.
‘Go ahead. I’m prepared to listen to anything that might help to unravel this tangle.’
‘Right. During the war Collingwood was a pilot in the RAF. He was put on this Bonney Island service. He might have been stationed here. Either way he got to know the place. I don’t see how otherwise he would know the island even existed. We’ve been about quite a bit and we didn’t know. While he was here, being a clever fellow, perhaps not long down from university, he spotted something worth having. He couldn’t do anything about it at the time, but he didn’t forget it, and when the war was over he came back here to cash in on it.’
‘On what? That’s what I want to know. You still haven’t told me. Otherwise your theory probably isn’t far off the beam. Then why not apply to the government for a concession and do the job properly? It isn’t as though the island belo
nged to a foreign country. He knew it was British. That would have been so simple. And where does the hemp come in? Why fiddle with drugs?’
‘I’d say because he’d picked up the habit and couldn’t bear the thought of being stuck here without any. By growing it himself he made sure of a constant supply. A cigarette addict like you might do the same thing with tobacco.’
Biggles shook his head. ‘You make it sound reasonable, but I don’t go for it. The fact is, there’s still a piece missing from this particular jigsaw, and until we find it we’re not likely to be able to complete the picture. Where does this Indian, or whoever he is, fit into it?’
‘That’s one I can’t answer.’
‘And where are we going to look for the missing piece?’
‘No use asking me. Are we going to spend the night ashore?’
‘Might as well. There’s not much point in trying to get the machine back on the water tonight, particularly as we’ve lost our anchor. To recover it will be our first job in the morning.’ Biggles looked around. It was now quite dark with the moon just peeping over the horizon. Suddenly his attitude tensed. ‘Don’t move,’ he said softly. ‘We’re being watched.’ Slowly his hand went to his pistol pocket.
Algy sat still, watching, but ready to move fast. Suddenly, as if impelled by a spring Biggles leapt to his feet and in six quick strides reached a clump of dwarf palmetto scrub. ‘All right! Come out. I can see you.’ he ordered crisply: Then he repeated it in a language that Algy took to be Hindi.
A dark figure detached itself from the thicket and with hands held up stood erect. ‘Don’t shoot, sir,’ said a voice, in English, that was certainly not Collingwood’s. It was guttural in pitch and had a strong, curious accent.
Algy joined Biggles as he rapped out a question. ‘Who are you?’
‘Name Ali, sir,’ was the answer.
‘Did Collingwood send you here to spy on us?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then why did you come?’
‘To tell you go home.’
‘Why?’
‘For your health. You stay you find trouble. Me like English mans.’
‘That’s a likely tale,’ sneered Biggles.
‘I tell true. Swear on Koran.’
‘What part of India do you come from?’
‘Not go India. Me born Aden. Once I soldier in Arab Levies.’
‘So you’re an Arab?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Biggles glanced at Algy. ‘Seems I was wrong,’ he said dryly. ‘I have a feeling this fellow might be telling the truth.’ Then, to the Arab: ‘How did Mr Collingwood bring you here?’
‘Not bring. I am here when he come. Me live here.’
Biggles frowned. ‘You say you live here?’
‘Yes, mister.’
‘How did you get here?’
‘Ship bring me.’
‘But you work for Mr Collingwood?’
‘Some time.’
‘He pays you?’
‘Yes, mister.’
‘Did he pay you to cut our mooring rope?’ accused Biggles.
The man moved his feet uncomfortably.
‘Come on. Out with it,’ snapped Biggles impatiently.
Before the Arab could answer: ‘What’s going on?’ inquired a voice from the top of the rise. This time, unmistakably, it was Collingwood, as suave as usual.
‘I’m taking the opportunity of having a word with the man you sent here,’ replied Biggles coldly.
‘Oh, and what has he told you?’
‘He advised us to go away — for the good of our health.’
‘And very good advice, too. You would be wise to take it.’
‘Did you send him here?’
‘I did not.’
‘Let’s put it like this. Why did you send him?’
‘Must I repeat myself? I did not send him.’
‘Are you saying he came here on his own account?’
‘Apparently.’
‘And you expect me to believe that?’
‘You can believe what you like. Frankly, I couldn’t care less about what you believe.’ To the Arab Collingwood said: ‘Go home.’
‘I do my best,’ the Arab said, and walked away.
Biggles looked at Collingwood. ‘Well, what else have you got to say?’
‘Nothing,’ Collingwood answered imperturbably. ‘Except perhaps this. You would do well to accept Ali’s advice. He knows what he’s talking about.’ With this, he, too, walked away.
‘What do you make of all that?’ asked Algy when he had gone.
‘Don’t ask me any more questions tonight,’ pleaded Biggles. ‘I’m tired of going round in circles. There is one thought that occurs to me. As an Arab, Ali will know all about hashish. He must have seen that crop of hemp. Has he something to do with that, I wonder?’
‘He gave us what sounded like a fair enough warning to get out,’ commented Algy.
‘He was repeating what Collingwood had already told us. It all adds up to the same thing. We’re not wanted here. We needn’t look far for the reason. Someone is afraid we might spot the truth of what this is all about. The hemp, for instance. To grow the stuff is illegal. Who would be likely to look for it in what would seem an ideal out-of-the-way spot like this? All sorts of tricks have been tried to produce a small crop of hemp. One of them, in Egypt, was to plant some in the middle of a standard crop like wheat or maize, so that it couldn’t be seen; but air photography put an end to that.’
‘Why not ask Collingwood straight out if he has a permit to grow the stuff?’
‘He might lie and say he had.’
‘Ask him to produce it.’
‘If he said he couldn’t find it, it would put us on a spot. We wouldn’t know what to do. I have a better idea than that.’
‘What?’
‘Cut the bally stuff down.’
‘That would be a bit hot; like taking the law into our own hands.’
‘I don’t see it like that. This is British Crown property. It is illegal to grow the drug hashish. We’re police officers. If we found someone with hashish we’d seize it. We can’t seize a whole crop, but we could do the next best thing, destroy it. There’s a heavy knife in our crash kit which is just the job.’
Algy shrugged. ‘Okay, if that’s how you feel. But be prepared for Collingwood to go off at the deep end when he finds what you’ve done.’
‘I shall do it tomorrow morning as soon as we’ve salvaged the anchor. We’d better keep guard tonight. We’ve been warned to prepare for trouble. I’m only surprised we were warned. We’d look silly if we woke up to find the machine on fire.’
‘They might go farther,’ Algy said seriously.
‘It may have been a good thing I told Collingwood who we are,’ went on Biggles. ‘He must realize that, as we were sent here officially, if we fail to return home someone will be sent to find out why and I don’t think that would suit him. That may have prevented him from doing anything drastic up to now; but it might be better not to gamble that this will go on. Make no mistake, if we have a puzzle to sort out, so has he. I’d bet he’s doing some serious thinking at this moment — as we are. In case he should try to spring a surprise we’ll take four hour stretches to keep awake. You pick your own time. It’s all the same to me.’
CHAPTER 9
HEAVY WEATHER AHEAD
THE night passed without incident, so the situation remained unchanged. Dawn broke over the Indian Ocean with the promise of another fine day; but there was a curious crimson tint in the sky which Biggles regarded with suspicion. ‘There’s a change coming; I can feel it in my bones,’ he said to Algy as they made a quick breakfast. ‘The breakers on the other side of the island have changed their note. They’re really growling. That usually means something — a change somewhere, if not here. It may not affect us, but we’d better get cracking and pull our mudhook up for a start. I don’t like to think of what could happen to the island if a typhoon struck it, lying low in the wa
ter as it does with practically no natural protection. Captain Grant, the skipper who put Bonney on the map, realized that and noted it in his log.’
‘Do you still intend to do what you decided on last night; knock off that hemp?’ inquired Algy .
‘Yes. That should bring matters to a head. We can’t sit around here indefinitely waiting for Collingwood to show his hand.’
‘He’s going to be more than somewhat peeved when he sees what you’ve done.’
‘That’s the idea. If he flies off the handle it will be as good as saying he planted the stuff; and that will be an admission that he’s involved in a drug racket.’
In the event, the recovery of the anchor proved to be a simple operation. At any rate, Biggles made it appear simple. The engines were started and the aircraft was soon back on the lagoon. The lifebelt that acted as a marker, the only conspicuous object on the calm water, could be seen from a distance, so Biggles was able to taxi straight to it. ‘You keep an eye open for anything looking like a shark,’ he told Algy. ‘If the brute is about he should show us his dorsal.’
‘What about Collingwood?’
‘What about him?’
‘He’ll hear the engines and come to see what we’re doing.’
‘So what? That doesn’t worry me. Anyhow, he must have realized by now that we’re not to be fooled by this Robinson Crusoe lark. At the moment that confounded shark could make things more difficult than anything he can do.’
The marker buoy was reached without any sign of the shark, as probably would have been the case had it been near. ‘It’s realized there’s more room in the open sea,’ Biggles said, as he reached out for the lifebelt and pulled the line taut. He pulled until the aircraft was directly above the anchor, but it would not move. He then tried pulling from different directions, but with no more success.
‘What are you going to do?’ Algy asked, with a note of alarm in his voice as Biggles began throwing off the few garments he was wearing.
‘I’m going down to unhook it,’ Biggles answered. ‘Otherwise we might be fiddling about here all day. You hang on to the line to keep the machine steady.’ After a final survey of the water around he filled his lungs, slid overboard and swam down. Inside a minute he was clambering back into the machine. ‘Okay,’ he said, shaking the water from his hair. ‘That was the easiest way. One of the flukes was hooked under a lump of coral and we might have hauled till we were blue in the face without clearing it.’
