by W E Johns
Ginger’s eyes, too, were taking in every detail of the scene. It was now obvious that the place was, or had been until recently, a camp. The main features were the three huts, or cabins. There were other, smaller, erections. All were built of the rock of which the island was composed so that they blended into the background and could not have been seen from a distance. Faint tracks led from hut to hut, and to the beach. There were a few other objects, none conspicuous in itself but together giving the impression of human occupation —a heap of driftwood, an empty can, a scrap of paper, a piece of orange peel.
There was one very curious object. On a flat boulder, about thirty yards from where they stood, rested a biscuit tin. The label it bore was new, untarnished by weather. Biggles looked at it for some time. Then he moved, slowly, step by step, towards the ugly stain and the fragments that lay on it. Stooping, he touched a piece.
Ginger was nearly sick when he realised suddenly what it was. His lips curled as he muttered: ‘Flesh.’
Biggles laughed — a short nervous laugh. ‘Call it meat,’ he corrected. ‘You said you saw a pig — a wild hog?’
‘This was it. Something tore it to pieces — small pieces; and I’ve got a pretty good idea what it was.’
‘It could only have been a bomb.’
‘Something of the sort. The poor beast took fright at our arrival, and was running away— Stop! Where do you think you’re going?’ Biggles’ voice was crisp.
Ginger had moved forward. ‘I was going to see what was in that biscuit tin,’ he explained.
‘It might be better to find out without touching it,’ suggested Biggles grimly. ‘Lie down.’
‘Lie—?’
‘Don’t argue. Lie flat.’
Ginger, his face a picture of astonishment, obeyed. Biggles also lay down. He drew his pistol and took careful aim at the tin. Ginger waited.
‘Hold your hat,’ said Biggles curtly. His pistol spat. The tin moved a few inches, that was all. He fired again. This time the crack of the weapon was followed by a vicious tearing explosion and the shrill whine of flying splinters. Grey smoke drifted. Debris pattered down. Silence returned.
Staring, Ginger saw that the tin, and most of the rock on which it had rested, had disappeared. His voice, when he spoke, was thin and dry with shock. ‘What the dickens was that?’
‘Booby trap,’ answered Biggles quietly. ‘That wretched hog saved our bacon,’ he added with grim humour. ‘Nazis have been here. We shall have to watch where we are putting our feet. And I’ll tell you something else. Nazis don’t set booby traps for penguins or wild hogs. Von Schonbeck knows we’re here.’
CHAPTER VI
Tragedy Ashore
Ginger, looking thoroughly shaken, rose slowly to his feet, glancing around with no small apprehension. ‘I don’t like this place,’ he decided. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘I don’t like it either, but we shall have to look at it,’ answered Biggles.
‘You think this was von Schonbeck’s camp?’
‘Yes — either his main base or an emergency depot.’
‘Why not wait for him to come back?’
‘Unless I have missed my guess he isn’t coming back. Had he been coming back he would have left a guard over the place; and he would hardly have set booby traps. No, this was von Schonbeck’s dump; when he went he went for good.’
‘With the gold?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Biggles thoughtfully. ‘I look at it like this. Whether this was von Schonbeck’s base or not he was pretty certain to have a refuelling station on Kerguelen, which, after all, is the biggest island in the South Indian Ocean. He probably arrived about the same time as the Tern, or soon afterwards. Naturally, he would wonder what she was doing here, and watch her. He may have guessed the truth. Anyway, I’m pretty certain he saw us arrive, or heard us take off when he sank the Tern. For whom, except us,mwould he have set booby traps? He realised that he couldn’t very well use Kerguelen at the same time as an aircraft without being spotted, so he cleared out, and knowing that sooner or later we should spot this camp, made arrangements for our reception. The booby trap is a Nazi speciality. Had that hog not come nosing around we might have stepped right into the trap, too.’
‘But how does the whaler fit into the picture? Her trail brought us here.’
Biggles considered the question. ‘I don’t know — yet. We may find out presently.’
‘If this was one of von Schonbeck’s refuelling stations, and he’s pushed off, it means that he had to abandon his oil. Yet he’ll need plenty to get him to the Magellan Straits.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ declared Biggles. ‘Judging by the mess I’d say von Schonbeck has taken most of his oil with him. We’ll soon see if that’s true by having a look round, but, by thunder, we’ve got to be careful how we do it.’
‘You’re telling me,’ muttered Ginger.
‘Stay where you are for a minute.’
Biggles made a long and intensive survey of the camp before he moved, and then gave it as his opinion that provided they had only booby traps to deal with they were reasonably safe, now that they were alive to the danger. With his pistol he fired off two more rather obvious traps. One was a large flat stone, in the manner of a doorstep, at the entrance of the nearest hut; the other, inside the building, was a case of chocolate so arranged that anyone lifting the lid would be blown to pieces. Biggles took no risks, choosing his path carefully without touching anything that could be avoided. Several times he fired at suspected traps that turned out to be harmless. Very little had been left behind. As he remarked to Ginger, if von Schonbeck knew that he was being sought by the British authorities, as it was now evident that he did, it was unlikely that he would leave any clue to his whereabouts.
A careful inspection revealed only a few cases of sundry stores, some emergency tools and boxes of ammunition. The big discovery was a concrete oil-tank that had been sunk into the rock about fifty yards from the camp. It was nearly empty. Biggles pointed to a dark, even line that ran completely round the wall, about four feet above the present level of oil. ‘That tells a story,’ he remarked. ‘For a long time the oil must have stood at the upper level, where it made a mark. That, I fancy, was the period when the submarine returned to Germany after the war ended. Within the last day or two the oil was reduced to its present level. What happened was, von Schonbeck came back and refuelled. There’s one thing wrong with that argument, though. No submarine could have the capacity for the amount of oil that has just been taken from this tank — not in one loading.’
‘Perhaps it made two trips. I mean, it could have shifted some of the oil and come back for more.’
Biggles shook his head. ‘No, that won’t do. Had two loads been taken there would have been a delay between the two loadings, in which case the oil would have made a second mark — a slight mark perhaps — where it rested in the interval. When the oil was pumped from this tank it was taken at one go.’
‘Von Schonbeck may have chucked the oil away to prevent us from using it?’ suggested Ginger. ‘Goodness knows there’s plenty of oil on the water.’
‘I can’t accept that,’ replied Biggles. ‘A gallon of oil, on water, will cover an area of miles. It only forms a very thin film. We’re talking about tons of oil. Where has it gone? There is only one reasonable answer to that. If von Schonbeck did not make two or three trips, and I don’t think he did — I doubt if he’d have the time, anyway — someone must have helped him. In other words, another vessel besides the submarine has been here. There aren’t many ships in these waters. In fact, there’s only one that could have done it — our friendly Norwegian whaler. This is all confirmation of our suspicion that the whaler isn’t what she pretends to be. I’m almost certain now that the whaler is acting as consort to the submarine.’
‘But would a Norwegian ship do that?’
‘Not willingly — we needn’t doubt that. But don’t forget that von Schonbeck is a Nazi. We know something
of his methods. The whaler might have been pressed into his service. Just how we don’t know, but in due course we shall find out. In the meantime I shall work on the assumption that the whaler is acting with the submarine, carrying reserve oil.’
‘It may have been doing that all along,’ said Ginger. ‘When Germany grabbed Norway she grabbed her ships.’
‘That may be so, but I have a feeling that this is something new,’ averred Biggles. ‘Had the whaler been working with von Schonbeck during the war, Muller, the chap who was shot in Berlin, would have mentioned it in his statement. There’s no doubt that a tanker would be invaluable to von Schonbeck, taking into consideration his proposed long run to Chile. Well, now he’s got one.’
‘What are we going to do about it?’ inquired Ginger. ‘If what you say is right, it would hit von Schonbeck a crack if we sank the whaler; but I imagine it wouldn’t do to sink a ship on the high seas flying the Norwegian flag.’
‘True enough,’ asserted Biggles. ‘It’s a bit hard to know what to do, and that’s a fact. It’s no use our following the whaler because we couldn’t do that without being seen or heard. The whaler would warn the submarine by radio that we were about. The two ships would certainly not make contact. In fact, it’s more likely that the whaler would push off and lay a false scent to take us off the trail. But I think this is going rather far, considering all the evidence we have is circumstantial. We have no actual proof that the whaler is in the racket, although the fact that she is at this moment heading for nowhere in particular is in itself suspicious. Still, suspicion isn’t proof.’
‘You think that the whaler has a rendezvous with the submarine?’
‘That, of course, is the obvious answer. The signals Algy picked up were probably messages between the whaler and the submarine. The sub could hide from us by submerging, but the whaler must stay on the surface, and from the fact that we turned up this morning to have a look at her she must know we are suspicious. At the same time, von Schonbeck is no doubt astute enough to know that we wouldn’t risk a row with Norway by interfering with a ship flying the Norwegian flag. If, subsequently, we could prove that the vessel had been pressed into von Schonbeck’s service it would be a different matter, but even then Norway would probably take a dim view of it if we sank one of her ships without consulting her. To report the situation to Raymond, who would then have to deal with the matter through diplomatic channels, would be hopeless. It would take weeks.’
‘You’re making it all sound very difficult,’ argued Ginger. ‘What can we do?’
‘Before doing anything else we shall have to go home for some more fuel,’ asserted Biggles. ‘Then we might have another look at the whaler to check its course. There’s just a possibility that we might strike the whaler and the submarine together — although I suppose that’s hoping for too much. An alternative would be to locate this place Corbie Island and see what goes on there — if anything.’
‘We could always track the whaler by following the oil trail,’ suggested Ginger.
Biggles glanced at the sky. ‘I’m not so sure of that. The wind is freshening and a heavy sea would soon wash out the trail.’ He thought for a moment, tapping a cigarette on the back of his hand. ‘There is one encouraging point arising out of all this. I don’t think von Schonbeck has got the gold yet. The whaler is heading roughly south-east, so if our deductions are correct the sub has gone in that direction since sinking the Tern. If von Schonbeck had the gold on board surely he would be on a course north-west for Chile, going at full speed to get clear of this area as quickly as possible. We’ll have a final look round and make for home.’
Without speaking again Biggles made another examination of the camp without discovering anything of interest. Finally he climbed to the top of a low cliff that backed the shingle beach to see what lay beyond it. Ginger followed, and looking round saw on all sides the dismal desolation to which he was becoming accustomed. The shore line beyond the cove was now visible. It was dead, empty, except at one place where a flock of sea-birds were wheeling and swooping with a good deal of noise. Biggles raised his binoculars and studied the spot. He did not speak.
‘See anything?’ asked Ginger.
‘I’m not sure,’ answered Biggles slowly. ‘But there must be something there or the gulls wouldn’t behave like that. Maybe they’re squabbling over a dead sea-creature — a whale, perhaps. I can just make out something tumbling in the surf, but I can’t see what it is. Let’s go and have a look. It isn’t far.’ He put his glasses back in their case and set off towards the clamour.
The walk took about ten minutes. Most of the gulls retired to a distance when the men approached; others hung about, circling, uttering the mournful cries of their kind. A short and rather dangerous descent took Biggles and Ginger to the shore, and after a final clamber over the rocks they reached their objective. They stopped. Neither spoke.
Near the rocks, rising and falling in the restless surf, were the bodies of two men, a short distance apart. Not without difficulty Biggles got one ashore, and a glance at the face was enough to tell Ginger that the man had not been dead for long — a few days at most.
The body, as was to be expected, was that of an ordinary seaman, a tall, fair-haired, well-built fellow in the early twenties, clad in the usual blue jersey and trousers. There was nothing to indicate who he was. But the second body was more fruitful of information.
This time it was an older man, grey and grizzled, his clean-shaven face tanned by wind and sun. He wore a jacket, and faded rings of gold braid on the sleeves revealed that he had been an officer. But what held Ginger’s gaze was a small round hole, blue at the edges, over the right eye.
‘This fellow wasn’t drowned — he was shot,’ said Biggles in a hard voice, as he felt in the inner pocket of the jacket. He brought out a number of letters. The ink of the addresses had run from immersion in the sea, but the words were still legible. In each case the name and address was the same. Biggles read it aloud. ‘Sven Honritzen, Maritime Hotel, Oslo.’ He glanced up and met Ginger’s eyes. ‘Norwegian,’ he said laconically. ‘The thing begins to hook together. This poor chap must have been one of the original officers of the whaler. I say original because I doubt very much if the officers now on board are Norwegians. The other fellow was a rating on the same ship. So the whaler was Norwegian. Von Schonbeck has been at his dirty work again. It doesn’t need much imagination to read the story. The whaler was here on legitimate business. Unfortunately for the skipper von Schonbeck saw it and decided the ship would be useful to him as a mobile base. He may have given the crew the chance to work for him, or he may not. Either way it would have come to the same thing in the end. We know how von Schonbeck disposes of evidence. These men were murdered in cold blood. There may have been others. Von Schonbeck has taken over the ship, with a crew of his own on board, no doubt. Of course, there may still be some of the original hands on board, working under pressure. A Nazi would think nothing of shooting anybody who refused to work for him.’ Biggles stared moodily at the bodies, the corners of his mouth turned down in hard lines. ‘My God! The score against this inhuman devil is mounting,’ he burst out suddenly, as if his passion had burst through his natural restraint.
‘We’ll get him. We’ll get him if we have to follow him to the Arctic and back again to the Antarctic! I’m always cautious about judging other men, but this cold-blooded brute isn’t fit to live.’ He recovered his composure with an effort, and went on slowly. ‘Well, I suppose it’s no use sitting here looking at these poor fellows. There’s one last thing we can do for them. Give me a hand.’
The bodies were carried above the high-water mark. A grave in the rocks was out of the question, but plenty of loose rock was available, and at the end of half an hour a tall cairn marked the last resting-place of two sailors who had gone down to the sea in a ship, never to return.
Biggles unstrapped his flying-cap and requested Ginger to do the same. Then, with the salt wind ruffling his hair, and the gulls
mewing a melancholy requiem, he said The Lord’s Prayer.
‘Amen,’ said Ginger at the conclusion, and replaced his cap.
‘All right,’ said Biggles quietly. ‘Let’s go.’ He set off at a fast pace up the cliff.
‘Take it easy — what’s the hurry?’ complained Ginger.
‘I’m anxious to have a word with von Schonbeck,’ answered Biggles curtly.
Ginger glanced at his face and said no more. He had learned when not to talk.
CHAPTER VII
Ditched
Biggles hardly spoke on the way to the base, where the others were found waiting with some anxiety. They had no news, however, beyond a report of more signals so strong on the air that the transmitter was obviously at no great distance; but as these, as before, were in code, they conveyed no information beyond the fact that they had been sent.
Over lunch, for the benefit of Algy and Bertie, Biggles narrated the events of the morning. ‘The most important thing about these developments is this,’ he concluded. ‘I’m pretty certain von Schonbeck hasn’t picked up the gold yet or both he and the whaler would close down on radio signals and hit the breeze at top speed for South America. They’ll get clear of this area as soon as they can, you may be sure; and that being so I feel inclined to prang the U-boat on sight — if we can find her. We could look for the gold afterwards. I’m not concerned overmuch with the whaler. It’s von Schonbeck I’m after. The first thing to find is the U-boat.’
‘Even if we located her I fancy we should have a job to catch her on the surface,’ opined Algy. ‘Von Schonbeck must know all there is to know about dodging aircraft.’
‘I quite agree,’ returned Biggles. ‘But that submarine can’t stay at sea indefinitely. She’s bound to make a landfall somewhere, even if it’s only to pick up the bullion. Our best chance is to catch her at moorings, and I’m going to have a shot at doing that this afternoon.’
