by W E Johns
The landing area was merely a wilderness of dust surrounded by loose tangles of barbed wire. The only thing that remained, apart from some ramshackle buildings that had once been the squadron offices, was a canvas hangar which, presumably, the contractor who had bought the salvage had not thought worth while to remove. This was understandable, for it leaned awry, and while the entrance was closed, the canvas at the rear hung in shreds. The only sign of life was provided by two native children who played in the dirt near what had once been the guardroom.
“Keep your eyes on that hangar,” Biggles told Ginger, as he flew on as if he had no intention of landing. “If there’s anyone there he’s bound to hear us, and won’t be able to resist having a look.”
Hardly had the words left Biggles’ lips than the canvas was parted and a man appeared, to stand still, staring, his face upturned.
“There’s someone there anyway,” said Ginger, sharply.
“How many people can you see?”
“One.”
“A white man?”
“I couldn’t be sure—he’s some way off,” answered Ginger doubtfully.
“Okay. I’m going to land. Tell the others to stay in the machine and on no account allow themselves to be seen. If that’s Braunton down there I’d rather he thought we were alone.”
“Good enough.”
By the time Ginger had carried out the order Biggles had brought the machine round and was gliding in to land. The wheels touched, throwing up a cloud of dust. As soon as the machine had finished its run Biggles touched the throttle again and taxied on towards the hangar.
A second man had now joined the first, and Ginger, now being comparatively close had a good look at them.
His first impression was that these were not the men they were seeking, for he had of course studied their photographs closely. The men shown in the prints had been clean-shaven, spick-and-span in white uniforms with gilt buttons as became their occupations.
The men standing outside the hangar were bearded, long-haired, ungroomed and in the filthiest of rags. They would, he thought, have passed for two prospectors who had been lost in the jungle for months. Yet, still looking as the machine drew nearer, it struck him that there was something vaguely familiar about their figures. In the photograph, Braunton had been a big blond, florid type, and Mailings a dark, slim man, with sharp features. Then Ginger realised that if these were the men they must have been at Browshera for months, living in primitive conditions, in which case they would hardly be immaculate. Apart from that, beards would help them to escape recognition.
“Leave the talking to me,” said Biggles quietly, as they climbed down.
“Are these our men?” breathed Ginger.
“I couldn’t swear to it but I think so. We shall soon know.”
Ginger followed Biggles to where the two men stood waiting, their backs against the canvas, eyes on the new arrivals. Their faces showed nothing of what they were thinking.
Their expressions, while not exactly hostile, were certainly not friendly, as might have been expected in the circumstances.
“Hallo there!” greeted Biggles cheerfully. “Do you fellows happen to have any equipment handy?”
The taller of the two answered: “Equipment? What sort of equipment?”
“Aircraft, of course.”
“What makes you think we might have?”
“Well, I happened to be passing, and spotting the hangar assumed that this was an airfield.”
“It used to be,” was the curt reply. “You must be a long way off your course. Don’t you ever look at your maps?”
“Sometimes,” answered Biggles. “I reckon this must be Browshera.”
“It used to be,” said the tall man again. “If you knew your job,” he added rudely, “you’d know that Browshera was shut down long ago. There’s nothing here.”
“I see. In that case I must have been mistaken,” said Biggles slowly.
“About what?”
“Browshera. There was talk of opening it up again, as a servicing station. That’s why—”
“When was this talk?” interrupted the tall man.
“Quite recently.”
To Ginger, the silence that followed this announcement was significant.
That Biggles had a sound reason for making such a statement he did not doubt.
“I only wanted to check my compass,” went on Biggles evenly. “Still, it isn’t all that important. I can manage.” As an afterthought he added: “What are you fellows doing here in this out-of-the-way place?”
“Minding our own business, mostly.” This time it was the thin man who spoke.
Biggles shrugged. “All right, if that’s how you feel. I thought you might like a lift somewhere.”
“We’re all right where we are,” said the tall man. “Matter of fact, we’ve got a timber concession in the area and we’re just having a look round.”
“I see,” returned Biggles. “Well, in that case, we’ll be getting along. So long.”
“So long.”
Biggles walked back to the Wellington. Ginger went with him, and not a word passed between them until they were in their seats with the engines idling.
“Well, that was was all very satisfactory,” remarked Biggles, as the machine began to move.
Contrary to Ginger’s expectations the aircraft did not turn in the direction that would have been necessary for a take-off. Instead, it taxied along towards the far end of the airfield. “It’s always a good thing on a strange aerodrome to have as long a run as possible,” said Biggles, with a sidelong glance at Ginger.
“I don’t get it,” murmured Ginger.
“You will in a minute.”
“But those were our men.”
“Without a doubt,” agreed Biggles. “Moreover, I’d bet a month’s pay to a little apple that the Lanky is in that hangar.”
Ginger looked surprised. “Did you see something?”
“Yes. I saw their hands. They were filthy with oil. They’ve got a machine of some sort behind that canvas and they were working on it when we breezed along.”
“Then why didn’t you do something about it?” demanded Ginger.
“Because it wasn’t the moment,” Biggles told him. “Those crooks didn’t know what to make of us but they were ready for trouble. We’ll tackle them when they’re not, and when we’ve collected enough evidence to send them where they belong.”
“How is running away going to help us?” asked Ginger in a puzzled voice.
“I’ve no intention of running away,” rejoined Biggles. “You see that patch of jungle straight ahead?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to turn the machine close to it,” explained Biggles. “As soon as we’re broad-side on, so that those fellows watching from the hangar won’t be able to see us get out, make a bolt for it and lie low. Take Agra with you. We may need him. I shall come with you. Algy will then take off and fly the machine back to Calcutta. I want him back here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Now go and warn him of what we are going to do. Tell him to move fast as soon as we’re out, or our friends yonder may wonder what’s going on.”
“Now I get it,” breathed Ginger.
Two minutes later Biggles swung the machine round in such a way as to send up a great cloud of dust. “We might as well have a smoke-screen,” he remarked. “That turn should prove to Braunton and Mailings that we’re just the sort of ham-fisted pilots they took us for. Down you go.”
Ginger jumped and made a dash for the jungle. Agra was close behind him and Biggles brought up the rear. They all threw themselves flat as the Wellington, now in Algy’s hands, kicked up an even bigger cloud of dust as it took off.
As the drone of the engines receded, Biggles led the way farther into the jungle until, finding a shady tree, he sat down. The others found places beside him.
Ginger smiled at this shrewd move. “Braunton and Mailings, seeing the machine go, will be patting themselves on the back think
ing how nicely they handled the situation,” he observed.
“That,” said Biggles “is exactly what I am hoping. When it gets dark we’ll stroll along and see what they’re doing. I don’t think they’re very smart. That timber concession excuse was pretty feeble.”
“But wouldn’t it have been better to arrest them while you had the chance?” put in Agra, in a disappointed voice.
“The time to arrest them will be when we know where they’ve hidden those trinkets of yours,” Biggles told him. “One false move, one whiff of suspicion of what we’re after, and you’ll never see them again.”
“But how can you hope to find the jewels in a place like this?” exclaimed Agra.
“Unless I’ve missed my guess, within the next few hours Braunton will show us where they are,” said Biggles, smiling.
“Show us!” Agra looked at Biggles incredulously.
“That’s what I said,” replied Biggles evenly.
“But why should they?” cried Agra.
“Because they think there is a chance of the aerodrome being re-opened, in which case the first thing they’ll do is move the jewels to a safer place.”
“But why should they think the aerodrome is to be re-opened?” demanded Agra.
Biggles smiled again. “I’m afraid it was rather naughty of me but I dropped a hint to that effect when we were talking,” answered Biggles.
“And from the way they looked at each other I fancied the hint went home. Presently we shall see. There’s no hurry. We’ll give them a few minutes to get settled down and then move nearer. When we do, speak quietly. Above all, keep out of sight.”
It was about half an hour later that Biggles got up, and keeping in the jungle near the perimeter of the aerodrome, began a cautious approach to the hangar. A survey of the scene had revealed that there was no one in sight. The two white men had, it was presumed, returned to the work on which they had been engaged when interrupted by the arrival of the Wellington.
About half-way to the objective there occurred an incident which had no connection with the airfield or the men on it; but it served as a sharp reminder, to Ginger at any rate, that they were in an Indian jungle.
Without warning there was a swift crash in some scrub just ahead. Everyone stopped, Biggles’ hand flashing to his hip pocket, as with a whirr of wings a peacock rocketed into the air shedding feathers as it went. Before the watchers could move, from out of the same bushes, flicking his tail angrily, stepped a leopard. The beast stopped dead when it saw that it was not alone. For perhaps five seconds it stood rigid, with yellow baleful eyes on the invaders of its domain. Then it walked on, and after once looking back over its shoulder, disappeared into the jungle.
Ginger drew a deep breath of relief. “I’m glad I didn’t step on his tail,” he told Agra grimly.
Agra smiled. “I think he might object to that,” said he. “Otherwise he was only concerned with stalking that bird for his dinner.”
Biggles said nothing. He moved on, the others keeping close, until they were about a hundred yards from the hangar, which stood only a short distance from some scrub that fringed the jungle proper. As yet no sound came to suggest that it was occupied.
Biggles came to a halt and beckoned the others close. “Agra,” he said. “I’m going to ask you to do a little job, one which I couldn’t undertake myself very well.”
“Yes, what is it?” asked Agra eagerly.
“I want you to take off your clothes, tie your shirt round your waist and do a little scouting. I am anxious to know where those men are and what they’re doing. Don’t be seen if you can avoid it; but if you are, it won’t matter much because they’ll take you for one of the natives. They must be used to seeing local people about. Get the idea?”
“Perfectly,” answered Agra without hesitation, and forthwith started to undress.
“If there should be any trouble come back this way,” ordered Biggles. “We’ll keep an eye on you as far as it’s possible.”
It did not take Agra long to get ready. He completed the transformation by ruffling his hair, by which time, naturally, he looked exactly what he was, a typical Indian boy. With a smile and a wave he went on, while Biggles and Ginger sat in the shade of a tree to await his return.
He was away for so long that Biggles began to get anxious. The sun was low, and with the short Indian twilight it would only be a matter of minutes before darkness fell.
Indeed, Biggles had just raised the question of going to look for him when he returned, his white teeth flashing in a smile that indicated success.
“Well, how did you get on?” asked Biggles, as the boy threw himself down beside them.
“Good, I think,” answered Agra. “First I went to the back of the hangar, very slowly in case anyone was there. There was no one, so I was able to have a good look. There is a plane there, a Lancaster I think, with wooden trestles under the middle to hold it up. The under-carriage seems to have been broken, and as there are many tools lying about I think it is being mended.”
Biggles turned to Ginger. “So that’s why they’re still here,” he said softly. “Either they had trouble, or made a dud landing that so damaged the under-cart that they couldn’t get off again. They might even have had to go, or send someone, for spare parts. Still, that doesn’t matter. The point is that they’re here. Go on, Agra.”
“Walking quietly, and picking up sticks as if I were collecting firewood, I went on to the buildings; and I was passing one which seemed to be in better repair than the others when I heard a man talking. He was speaking English and I listened. I will tell you what he said as far as I can remember, although I couldn’t make much sense of it. He kept saying, I don’t like it. Then somebody said, something ought to be in the ground. Then another man, speaking with a funny accent, said they ought to leave the plane and go away together. Then the first man said, if the plane was found there, it would be known that they had been there. The second man said it would be better to set fire to the whole thing and burn it up. Then the third man, the one who had the funny accent, said there was no need for that. He said it would be all right if they just worked on one at a time, so that they would be able to move at a moment’s notice. The rest could be put away as soon as it got dark. That was all I heard, because then they started moving as if they were coming out and I had to bolt. Lying in the bushes I saw two men go to the hangar. But here is a funny thing. As soon as they had left, some sort of machine started working in the room where they had been talking. I could hear it buzzing. That’s all. Then I came back. Have I done well?”
“Very well indeed.” Biggles sat with his chin cupped in his hand for some minutes before he spoke again. “Not knowing definitely what they were talking about, it all sounds rather confusing,” he said at last, “but I think I can follow the general trend of the conversation. They’ve taken my remark, about the airfield’s being brought into service again, seriously. It’s got them worried, which is understandable, because it means that they’ll have to clear out of this pretty soon. Surveyors might turn up at any time and find them here. The Lancaster would be seen and recognised, and that would put them on a spot. We can assume that the machine isn’t quite ready to fly, so either they’ve got to get it finished quickly, or abandon it. I imagine they’ve still got the jewels somewhere about. They won’t go without them, yet to start on foot, carrying them, would be no joke. I’m puzzled about this third man, the one with the queer accent. I wonder where he fits into the picture. And the machine you heard. If it had any connection with the aircraft surely it would be in the hangar. No matter. We’re getting on nicely. But I’m afraid we shan’t get much further tonight. If we take our eyes off these fellows now they’ve got the jitters we may miss the boat after all. As soon as it gets dark we’ll move into a position from where we shall be able to see everything that goes on. We’ll take turns to keep watch. Agra, you can put your clothes on again.”
“I’m not infatuated with the idea of crawling about this jungle
at night,” remarked Ginger.
“Why not?”
“I’m thinking about that leopard.”
Biggles smiled. “I’m afraid we’ll have to take a chance of Mr. Spots.”
Almost as soon as the sun had sunk behind the trees that lined the far side of the desolate aerodrome deep night settled over the scene; and with the coming of darkness the jungle came to life as nocturnal creatures, large and small, began their sorties in search of food.
Agra paid little attention to this, but Ginger, who was not without experience of tropical forests, found them disconcerting, probably because they were sitting in the open without even a camp fire to discourage unwelcome visitors. A karker, the barking deer, could be heard not far away, and soon afterwards a sambhar belled. Then some jungle fowl began to cackle and Agra glanced in the direction.
“I fancy that’s the leopard they are swearing at,” remarked Biggles.
“I think it’s more likely the jungle folk are telling each other about a tiger on the move,” replied Agra calmly.
“Then I hope he doesn’t take this direction for a stroll,” said Ginger grimly.
“Don’t worry. It wouldn’t be a man-eater,” Agra reassured him.
“How can you be sure of that?” demanded Ginger.
“Because there are some Indian people living farther along the aerodrome and the children were allowed to play outside,” explained Agra. “If a man-eater were in the district they would have gone, because when such a beast takes up residence my people don’t dispute it with him.”
“That’s a crumb of comfort, anyway,” muttered Ginger. “All the same, I prefer my tigers in cages.”
A glim of light showing through some holes in the back of the hangar, and an occasional chink of metal on metal, revealed that Braunton and Mailings were still working on the damaged Lancaster.
Just before midnight the moon, nearly full, soared over the forest to shed a bright but mysterious light over the flat expanse of sterile earth that formed the landing-ground, and at the same time lined the edge of the jungle with distorted shadow. The night wore on, and more than once Ginger caught himself dozing. Biggles, never moving, sat staring at the hangar. “They’re certainly putting in some overtime,” he remarked on one occasion.
