by W E Johns
“I take it you’ve no official record of an aircraft, military or civil, being in the area?”
“None. The R.A.F. have no station near, and no civil permit has been issued or I should have notified you for your records.”
Biggles toyed with a cigarette. “Where did the Steiners get their pictures?”
“The Steiners? Oh, you mean the people who are showing that wild animal film at the Poly Cinema.”
“Yes. They call it The Heart Of Africa. According to the papers they’re an adventure-loving husband and wife who waffle round the wild spots of the earth in a flying boat taking wonderful shots of wild animals. They’re going back to Africa again shortly. It was the air angle that interested me.”
“Quite so. I don’t know much about them, except that last year they made a picture in India with our blessing.”
“Theirs might have been the machine that Tommy saw.”
The Air Commodore shook his head. “I doubt it. At least, they didn’t ask for a permit, so presumably for their African picture they made their base in French or Belgian territory.”
“Neither of which is far from Ubeni.”
“True enough. They might have got off their course a trifle. But I don’t think you need worry about them. After all, their business relies on keeping friendly with the natives, not by antagonising them.”
Biggles nodded. “Still, they have an aircraft.” He got up. “I’ll take Ginger with me and start for Juba in the morning to get young Soutar’s story at first hand. Afterwards I may have a look at this Ubeni country.”
Four days later, on the arid airfield at Juba, sitting on an empty oil drum near a police Saro amphibian aircraft that he had flown out, Biggles listened to the story of Tommy Soutar, the boy who had lost his father.
He was a fair, sun-bronzed, intelligent-looking lad who, outwardly at any rate, showed no signs of his recent misadventure. Ginger had been to the farm where he worked to fetch him while Biggles refuelled the aircraft.
The story provided little new in the way of information. Tommy regretted that he would not recognise the mysterious aircraft again if he saw it; and, in answer to another question, stated that he could not even guess what was in the little tin box given to his father by the native.
“When you set off on foot you left the wagon just as it was, with everything in it?” queried Biggles.
“Except what food I could carry,” answered Tommy.
“Then presumably it’s still there. Could you find the place again?”
“Easily.”
“You mean, there was a conspicuous landmark?”
“Yes, the lake. I kept near it for water, as my father had done. A narrow creek juts out, shaped like an elbow. I had stopped in a glade in some thorn trees about a hundred yards from the end of it, hoping any natives who came alone wouldn’t notice the wagon. The lions must have been in the scrub.”
“If I flew you to the lake could you show me this place?”
“Yes.”
“Will you come?”
“Of course.”
“Then let’s go,” said Biggles, rising. “We can do nothing more here. An hour should see us there. There should be no difficulty in finding the lake, any way. You can sit next to me and point out the creek when we come to it.”
In five minutes the machine was in the air, and in just over an hour the first objective was in view—a long narrow sheet of placid, reed-fringed water, that sprawled across an otherwise featureless landscape. Biggles struck it at the northern end. Under Tommy’s direction he flew south, and following the eastern shore came upon the creek to which reference had been made. The village of Ubeni, Tommy said, was about twenty miles farther on, as near as he could judge.
Cutting his engines Biggles glided low over the proposed landing ground, unruffled except for ripples where some hippos sank out of sight as the machine approached.
Turning, he made a second run, and this time the keel slashed a creamy wake down the surface of the water towards the inner end of the creek. As the machine lost way, a burst of engine sent it on until its bows swished in the reeds that lined the bank. Some rose-pink flamingoes took wing from a nearby mudflat, otherwise nothing appeared to be disturbed.
“‘Ware crocodiles,” warned Biggles, as Ginger stepped out into a foot of water to make the machine fast.
Ginger took heed, but the danger did not materialise. The others joined him on the bank, Biggles carrying a rifle, in case, as he said, the lions that had attacked the oxen were still in the vicinity. If they were, nothing was seen of them.
“This way,” said Tommy, walking towards an area of flat topped trees that straggled in the dry grass no great distance away.
In a few minutes the melancholy proof of Tommy’s story was before them. The dismembered skeleton of a bullock lay in the grass. Just beyond, the abandoned wagon stood silent and forlorn.
“That was my home for six months,” remarked Tommy sadly, as they walked up to it.
A disappointment awaited them. As they neared the vehicle Tommy suddenly ran forward with a cry of dismay. Explanation was unnecessary, for what he had seen was apparent to all. The wagon was empty. Of its mixed contents not one article remained.
“The natives must have found it after all!” exclaimed Tommy bitterly.
“I was afraid of that,” said Biggles evenly. “Being so near to Ubeni someone was almost certain to spot it.”
“Even so, unless the robbers knew for certain that my father was dead they would hardly dare to touch his things,” declared Tommy miserably.
“Where did your father usually keep his valuables?” inquired Biggles. “I imagine he sometimes carried quite a lot of money and he wouldn’t just leave it lying about?”
“I don’t care about the money,” said Tommy huskily.
“I wasn’t thinking of money particularly,” replied Biggles. “It struck me that he might have put the tin box given to him by the native in the same place.”
“Yes, that’s right,” agreed Tommy. “He hid his money in a little locker under a loose board over the forward axle—here.” Tommy stooped, lifted the board, and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. “They didn’t find it!” he cried. “It’s still here!”
“The money?”
“And the box.” Tommy lifted a small metal box with a blue-painted lid. As he handed it to Biggles something inside rattled. Biggles prised it open, for it was the sort that a rubber lining inside the rim holds the lid secure and airtight. Into the palm of his left hand he poured a number of tiny stones. The largest was about the size of a pea. He held it up. As the light fell on it, in some strange way it seemed to glow.
“What on earth are they?” asked Ginger.
“Diamonds,” answered Biggles softly. “Uncut diamonds.”
For a minute no one spoke. Then Biggles went on. “So now we know. I thought this little box might hold the key to the mystery. At any rate, it’s turned the spotlight on it. This is the position as I see it now. The Ubeni have struck diamonds. Maybe they were found by the men who were recruited for work in the mines at Kimberley. They’d probably recognise diamondiferous gravel if they saw it. They’d also know it is illegal to buy and sell diamonds—not that that would stop them selling any they had, given the chance. To whom could they sell them in a place like this? Obviously, it must have been a white man. From the evidence, it rather looks as if he traded them gin, jam and sardines, for stones. The natives, knowing they were breaking the law, would discourage other white visitors—as we know they did. In that attitude they would of course be encouraged by the white man who was making a good thing out of them. Tommy’s father, being honest, was given the cold shoulder. But there’s usually a fly in that sort of ointment. In this case it was the native who, being short of tobacco, followed the wagon to get some. He offered diamonds for it.” Biggles looked at Tommy.
“Your father would smell such an obvious rat instantly, but rather than make a fuss he took the stones. Then, bravely b
ut unwisely, I think, he went back to find out where they were coming from; or, perhaps, to try to locate the crook who was handing out the gin. In doing so he lost his life. The native who was after tobacco must have been spotted and followed. His fellow tribesmen, furious that he had divulged their secret, killed him. Your father may have run into the same crowd. Maybe they were drunk. That is conjecture, but something of the sort must have happened.”
Tommy nodded. “That’s about it.”
“Had they found you no doubt you would have shared the same fate,” averred Biggles. “Curiously enough, the lions may have saved you. By starting off on foot you gave them the slip, although as we can see they found the wagon.”
“The thing is to find this white man, who is really at the bottom of the trouble,” said Ginger in a hard voice.
Biggles held up the tin. “This, originally, held cigarettes—an unusual brand, too, judging from the name on the lid. Did your father smoke cigarettes, Tommy?”
“Never. Only tobacco.”
“In that case, as this box is in shop-new condition, we can assume that it belongs to the fellow who supplied the gin. It’s hard to see how the native could have got it any other way. When we find the man who smokes this particular brand of cigarettes, and there can’t be many in this part of the world, we’ll ask him some questions.”
“Africa is a big place to start looking for a man smoking a particular brand of cigarettes,” Ginger pointed out.
“We shan’t have far to go I fancy,” said Biggles dryly.
“You mean—Ubeni?”
“Of course.”
“He may not be there now.”
“If he isn’t he’ll come back. Oh yes, he’ll come back—while there are diamonds to be had for gin and jam,” declared Biggles cynically.
“Which means that you’re thinking of going to Ubeni?”
“It’s the one place where we can be sure of finding this crook—sooner or later.”
“The natives will kill you as they did my father,” protested Tommy.
“I shall do my best to avoid any such unpleasantness,” averred Biggles.
“From the air we could soon spot a wagon heading in this direction,” said Tommy eagerly.
Biggles smiled. “And from the ground we should see an aeroplane coming this way just as easily,” he said softly. “When our man comes along he’ll be in a hurry. Crooks are always in a hurry. A wagon is a slow way of getting over the ground. Let’s go back to the machine. I want to show you something, Tommy. You might as well bring that money that belonged to your father. There’s no point in leaving it there.”
They all returned to the aircraft. From the pocket in his instrument panel Biggles took a large envelope. Still speaking to Tommy he said: “I gather you’ve travelled quite a long way beside this lake?”
“Yes. Dad and I struck it to the south, and followed the bank to keep near water.”
“Very well,” continued Biggles. “I want you to look at these photographs and tell me if you recognise any place shown in them. Never mind the animals, the hippos and crocs, and so on. Concentrate on the scenery.” As he spoke Biggles drew from the envelope a batch of prints.
Ginger looked surprised. “Where did you get those?” he demanded.
“In London,” answered Biggles, vaguely.
Tommy looked hard at several photographs before he stopped. Then he held one up. “I know this place,” he declared.
“Are you positive?”
“Absolutely.”
“Where is it?”
“A mile or two below Ubeni village. We spent a night there. I remember it well because I’ve never seen so many hippos as there were there. There they are, in the photo. I walked out on that very fallen tree to get a bucket of water.”
“Thank you,” acknowledged Biggles. “We needn’t bother with the rest. That’s all I wanted to know.” He replaced the photographs.
“Is there some secret about this?” inquired Ginger, with gentle sarcasm.
“No,” admitted Biggles. “There’s a travel film showing in London called The Heart Of Africa. It was made by a man and woman named Steiner. It’s a good film. I saw it the night before we left. I liked it so much that I went to the publicity agent and bought some enlargements of the shots— particularly those showing scenery. I thought there was a chance that I might recognise some of the places when I got here.”
“In what way can that help us?”
“In this way,” rejoined Biggles. “The Steiners had no permit to operate in British territory. They did not apply for one. They say they were nowhere near British territory when they were in Africa. Their picture, the film states, was made in the Belgian Congo. That’s a lie. They came here, otherwise they could not have taken a photo of the place Tommy has identified. Why should they lie about a little thing like that? People who lie in little things will always lie in big ones.”
“Because they didn’t want it known that they had been here.”
“Good. Go to the top of the class. Their lie has now rebounded on them, as lies usually do.”
“You think it was their machine I saw?” put in Tommy.
“Let us say it seems highly probable.”
“In that case,” surmised Ginger, “It could have been these people Steiner who handed out the booze to the Ubeni in return for diamonds?”
“It could. I’m not saying it was... not yet. But had their visit here been clean and above board there would have been no need for them to lie.”
“And you think they’ll come back?”
“I don’t think. I know. They’ve announced in London that they are returning to Africa to make another film. There may be money in films, but pictures are chicken feed compared with diamonds. I made enquiries and found they were scheduled to leave within a week after we left.”
“Which way are they coming?”
“I don’t know. In that respect, wisely perhaps, they kept their plans to themselves. If they come here we shall see them.”
“Does that mean you’re going to wait to see if they come here?”
“It does.”
“So that’s why you packed all that canned food on board! I thought it was a precaution against an emergency landing.”
Biggles laughed. “What’s this, if it isn’t an emergency landing?”
“Okay. And what exactly is the drill?” questioned Ginger.
Biggles took a cigarette from his case and tapped it pensively on the back of his hand. “That’s not an easy matter to decide. Of course, there are plenty of things we could do, but most of them bristle with difficulties. If one native can produce several diamonds the place must be littered with them. If they get loose on the market they’ll cause no end of mischief by lowering the value of all the other diamonds in the world. That’s why the government maintains such a strict control. Another risk is, when the Ubeni realise their value they’ll start selling them for cash and buy rifles with the money. That mustn’t happen.”
“But surely you could prevent that by letting the authorities know what’s going on?” argued Ginger.
“That’s true up to a point,” replied Biggles. “But official action is slow. Suppose the fellow who knows about the stones slips in and buys the lot? Once he gets away with them how could we hope to find them? If I was sure he’d stay in British territory I’d follow him and nab him with the goods on him. But once he leaves here he might go anywhere. Remember, we’re close to French and Belgian territory. Once the fellow got across the frontier we could do nothing about it. The best way might be to grab him in Ubeni village, but there are difficulties about that, too. The natives would take a hand. I don’t want to finish up on the point of a spear. That would start a punitive war, and Raymond wouldn’t thank us for that. There is this about it. If the Steiners do come here I shall soon know whether it’s pictures or pebbles they are after.”
“How?”
“If they really wanted pictures they’d be here for weeks. If it’s diamonds, th
ey’ll be gone in a few hours. That’s the dickens of it. Once they’re away we’ve lost them—and the diamonds.”
“So what?”
Biggles stroked his chin. “Short of force, the occasion seems to call for headwork. Give me a little while to think it over.”
Sitting on the ground, with a cigarette smouldering between his fingers, Biggles gazed across the shimmering lake. It took him twenty minutes to reach a decision; but having done so his manner became brisk. He beckoned Ginger to one side. “I’m not going to carry the responsibility for this,” he said tersely. “I haven’t said so to Tommy, but I’m by no means convinced that his father is dead. He may be a prisoner in the village. Natives think twice before they murder a white man. Should Tommy’s father be alive, one bad move on our part might cost him his life. I’m going to ask the Air Commodore for instructions. The Steiners, if they’re coming, won’t be here for some days, so we have a little leeway in the matter of time. I want you to make flat out for Egypt. Go to the Air Officer Commanding, R.A.F. Headquarters, show him your papers and ask for contact with Raymond, on service radio. Explain the position to him. Having got his instructions come back here. I’ll do my best to keep the situation under control in the meantime. Tommy will stay with me. We’ll unload some stores and make camp in the wagon.”
Ginger nodded. “Okay. I’ll hit the breeze as fast as I can. I ought to be back here in three days if there’s no delay in getting hold of the Air Commodore.”
“Good enough,” confirmed Biggles. “Get cracking. By the way, if you don’t find me here when you get back, give me a few hours and then make for home to report fully to Raymond.”
“Does that mean you’ll have gone to Ubeni?”
“Probably. I shall have to go there if this diamond buyer on wings turns up before you get back. I daren’t risk letting him get away with the loot.”
Half an hour later the Saro was in the air, heading north. Biggles and Tommy were at work unloading food stores and making camp.
On the afternoon of the third day after Ginger’s departure Biggles was sitting on a shaft of the wagon, talking to Tommy, when he broke off suddenly, his head in a listening position. “Here comes somebody, and it doesn’t sound like Ginger,” he said sharply. “Ginger would be flying low, if not actually gliding in. The machine we can hear is pretty high, which means it still has some way to go.”
