by W E Johns
“If that isn’t a runway through those dry rushes I’ll eat my goggles,” he told Ginger, who was also gazing down with a good deal of interest. “I’m going down to have a look at this,” he declared. “Tell Algy to stand by in case we hit a snag.”
Ginger passed on the information to the second machine, which was flying on their tail, while Biggles made another circuit and then glided in along the broad track where the rushes had been flattened.
Apart from the landing being a trifle bumpy it was accomplished without mishap, and the Proctor ran to a stop within twenty yards of the derelict Nestorian—a big, twin-engined biplane. A minute or two later they were on their feet examining the wreck, which had stood up to exposure better than might have been supposed. But two features were significant. The first was the instrument panel. It had been carefully stripped, obviously by some person who knew how to do it.
“No native did that,” asserted Biggles. “Those instruments were worth money and someone knew it. All the same, I doubt if anyone would risk a landing here for the express purpose of salvaging them. I’d say he had something else in mind—petrol, for instance. Remember, when this machine came down it had just left Khartoum, where its tanks would be topped up. That means that it was carrying a heavy load of fuel. There would be a certain amount of evaporation, but not so much, I think, as has actually happened. One tank still has a lot left in it, although the others are nearly dry. Why should there be any difference? Evaporation would apply equally to all. It looks to me as if someone has been using this place as a refuelling station. That would account for the runway. To anyone in need of petrol this must have been a godsend—particularly if that person didn’t want to be seen too often at a proper airfield, where questions might be asked. I have an idea, too, that the fellow who has been landing here didn’t tumble on the Nestorian by accident, either. He knew it was here.”
“Those two German pilots, having once flown over the Sudd, would be pretty sure to know about it,” opined Ginger.
“You took the words out of my mouth,” murmured Biggles. “Anyway, I think it’s safe to say that the mystery machine, I mean the one that has been spraying the landscape with bullets, has been getting its petrol here. It would have to get petrol from somewhere, and if those Storch pilots had shown up at any place where petrol is normally available they would have been recognised. I fancy we’re on a warm scent. Now we’ll go and see if we can make it warmer.” Biggles started off through dry rushes that came nearly to his shoulders. “Watch your step for snakes,” he warned.
“Where are you going?” asked Ginger, in a surprised voice.
“I spotted something from the air and I want to have a look at it,” replied Biggles. “It isn’t far away— half a mile, not more.”
Ginger, striking at mosquitoes that rose at every step, followed, and ten minutes later, with his handkerchief over his nose, stood looking at the object of the walk. It was the carcass of an elephant, a magnificent bull. Yet it carried no tusks, and the reason was evident. They had been hacked out.
“Well, there it is,” said Biggles simply. “That’s the answer. Ivory. All we have to do now is find the poachers. We shall have to be careful. Those tusks weren’t carved out by white men. They’ve got natives working for them. Only natives could hack out an elephant’s tusks like that. They didn’t come from the western side, obviously, because those are the lads who made the complaints. We’ll try the east. I noticed tracks leading that way. No wonder the wing-commander said there had been a lot of activity lately. Tusks are heavy things to haul about. I’d wager that poor old fellow’s rusks weighed seventy or eighty pounds apiece. They’d be too big to get in a light plane, and too cumbersome. Hence the native porters. The poor beasts are shot from the air, plastered with machine-gun bullets, apparently. What a sickening business! The natives follow up and collect the ivory. We shouldn’t find it too difficult to track them to where they’re taking it. Men with heavy loads couldn’t move through this stuff without leaving a trail. Judging from the number of trails I noticed there must be quite a dump of ivory somewhere. I also noticed several carcasses.”
“So that’s what they were,” cried Ginger. “I noticed several black things lying about but couldn’t make out what they were.”
“That’s because I was looking for dead elephants, and you weren’t,” returned Biggles evenly. “All right, we’ll follow these trails and see if we can find out where they end. When we get in the air tell Algy to carry on behind us.”
Soon afterwards the Proctor was in the air again, heading eastwards, following a trail which became ever more conspicuous as it was joined by others, all running in, Ginger noticed, from the carcasses of slaughtered animals. The effect was that of a main line, in frequent use, served by small feeder lines.
“I don’t think these butchers can be very bright or they wouldn’t have allowed their bearers to go on using the same tracks,” remarked Ginger.
“Perhaps they had no say in the matter,” returned Biggles. “After all, the fellows carrying the tusks would choose a well-beaten track rather than make a new one every time. Moreover, in crossing the swamp, the way wouldn’t always be a matter of choice. They’d have to keep on the hard ground, and much of it still looks pretty soft.”
Nothing more was said for some time. The Proctor, which Biggles had taken up to a thousand feet, droned on, with the reserve machine cruising at a comfortable distance behind. For the most part, Ginger watched the trail, which still ran on and on, often making a wide detour round stagnant water. Elephants were sometimes seen, always in small groups that stampeded as the aircraft approached. Which, as Biggles remarked grimly, was a clear indication of the manner in which they had been harassed. Normally, wild animals soon learn that they have nothing to fear from aircraft.
The eastern extremity of the great swamp came into sight. It was marked by an irregular line of rising ground topped by typical East African scrub and flat-topped trees. Into such an area, split by a conspicuous gorge, the well-beaten trail that the aircraft had been following eventually disappeared.
“That, I should say, is the terminus,” observed Biggles. “If the ivory isn’t already on its way to the coast that’s where we shall find it.”
“Are you going to land?” asked Ginger.
“I am.”
“The poachers, whoever they are, may show fight.”
“So what? That’s a chance every policeman on the trail of a crook has to take,” asserted Biggles. “I’m not letting them get away with their loot if I can prevent it. Knowing that the rains are near they may pull out any day now.”
“What about the natives? They may turn nasty if these fellows are paying them well.”
“I should say it’s more likely that they are just giving them elephant meat in return for their services,” said Biggles. “Still, it’s always better to avoid trouble if it’s possible. Make a signal to Khartoum; tell them what’s happened, give them the pin-point and say we’re going down. Then, if anything goes wrong, they will at least be able to follow up. If the ivory is here someone will have to fetch it, anyhow. We can’t carry it. I’ll cruise a bit to the north while you send the signal.”
“The poachers may hear us.”
“They’ve probably heard machines before. They’ll assume we’re just a routine flight from Khartoum. Tell Algy to follow me down when I land. Get cracking.”
“Okay.” Ginger turned to the transmitter.
Twenty minutes later, having made a long cast to the north, Biggles turned back and glided towards an area of flat, open country, about a mile from the gorge into which the trail disappeared. After a careful survey of the ground for possible obstructions, he landed, switched off, got out and waited for the other machine to come in.
Algy landed, taxied up and switched off. He and Bertie got out.
Biggles explained the position to them. “I’m expecting to find the Storch parked near the gorge,” he said. “If it isn’t there—well, the poache
rs, whoever they are, won’t be far away. My plan is to walk along quietly and if possible take them by surprise. That may save trouble all round. If they decide to fight, then it’ll have to be that way. Bertie, you’ll stay here and take care of the machines, just in case someone comes along with the idea of borrowing one of them. I should hate to have to walk home.”
“Absolutely, old boy, absolutely,” agreed Bertie.
“All right, let’s go.” Biggles turned away and set off at a brisk pace.
An uncomfortable walk of about a quarter of an hour—for the heat was oppressive and the flies tiresome —brought them near the belt of timber through the middle of which ran the gorge. That someone was in it was now evident, for from the place where the ravine debouched into the open plain a thin spiral of blue smoke rose into the air.
“No more talking,” ordered Biggles softly. “Move as quietly as you can.”
He went on, more slowly now, keeping in the deep shadow along the fringe of the timber. Once, from somewhere not far ahead, came a confused murmur of voices. Biggles altered direction towards the spot. A few more paces and he stopped, pointing.
Catching up, Ginger looked in the direction indicated and saw something that caused him no surprise. It was an aeroplane. He recognised the type. It was a Storch. It stood well back in the deep shade of a big tree with its nose pointing to open ground that had been cleared to make the short runway necessary for a take-off. The trunk of the tree next attracted his attention. It appeared to be exceptionally thick, almost white in colour, and curiously fluted. He stared at it for some seconds before he perceived that he was not looking at the trunk of the tree at all, but at a number of long white objects that had been stacked against it. He had never seen raw ivory but he was never in doubt as to what the white objects were. Elephant tusks.
Biggles beckoned him nearer. “Turn on the draining tap of the main tank,” he whispered, pointing to the aircraft. “It’s likely they’ll try to get away in it so we may as well immobilise them. I’ll keep watch.”
Not a sound broke the sultry silence as Ginger obeyed the order. In five minutes he was back. “Okay,” he breathed.
Biggles walked on, and did not stop again until dappled sunlight revealed a small glade just ahead. In the middle of it had been pitched a tent. In front, on logs that had evidently been placed there to serve as seats, sat three white men. Two were young and clean-shaven, dressed in well-worn tropical drill suits. The third man was a good deal older; burly of figure and heavily bearded, he was dressed in the manner of a hunter. A bandolier hung across his chest and a rifle rested on his knees.
Biggles walked straight up to them, and was speaking before they had recovered from the shock of his sudden appearance. “I’m a policeman, and you’re under arrest for poaching ivory in a prohibited area,” he announced curtly.
The effect of this was not in the least what Ginger expected it would be.
The old man, looking at his companions, merely said in a deep, sonorous voice, with a slight foreign accent: “So. I told you trouble would come of this.”
Biggles looked at the speaker. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Paul Loezer is my name,” was the answer, made quite calmly.
“Your nationality?”
“I am an Afrikaaner.”
“How do you come into this?”
“I am a trader for many years in East Africa. These boys tell me they have found much ivory and ask if I will buy it, or take it to the coast. When I see what it is I will not touch it. I tell them this. Now I am glad, because in all my time, I do not break the law.”
“Have you your wagons here?”
“They are nearby.”
“Where do you live?”
“At Mogada.”
“Will you accept a commission from me to take this ivory there and hold it until the Government decides what to do with it? I’ll give you the order in writing.”
“Very well.”
Biggles looked at the younger men. “You’re Brund and Heckel, I believe?”
The two men looked at each other but did not speak.
“I’m going to take you to Khartoum,” went on Biggles. “Will you come quietly, or—”
He got no further, for at this juncture the two men, as if actuated by a secret signal, moved swiftly, although their actions were different. One sprang to his feet, and raced, swerving, to the trees, into which he disappeared from sight. The other snatched the rifle from the trader’s knees and pointed the muzzle at Biggles. Biggles jumped sideways, his automatic now in his hand; but as it happened he did not have to use it, for the firing-pin of the rifle snapped home on an empty breach. With a bitter curse the German flung the rifle at Biggles and jumped back into the tent, to reappear a moment later from the far end, dodging and twisting as he followed his companion into the trees. Biggles half-raised his pistol but lowered it again. “I don’t think they can get far,” he said. “Go after them, but be careful.” Turning to the old man, who was shaking his head sorrowfully at these events, he asked: “What natives are there here?”
“Murloos. They’re good boys. I know them. They do not understand this poaching. They are in their own camp over there.” The old man pointed.
“I’ll leave you to explain things to them,” said Biggles quickly. “Get the ivory home. You’ll hear more about it later.” And with that he turned and ran in the direction from which now came the crack of pistol shots.
Before he could reach the spot all other sounds were drowned in the roar of the Storch’s motor. “Stop them!” he yelled. “Tell them they’ve only got their gravity tank. They’ll—”
The rest of his words were lost in the rising crescendo of the engine as the throttle was opened and the machine took off. He arrived on the scene just as Algy and Ginger came running up.
“We couldn’t stop them without exposing ourselves, or shooting them,” explained Algy. “They both had automatics and held us off while they started up.”
“No matter, they can’t get far,” returned Biggles, and with the others following hurried to the edge of the trees, eyes on the Storch, now racing low over the dry rushes. “What’s going to happen when they switch from gravity to the main tank?” asked Algy anxiously.
“Only one thing can happen, unless they grab some altitude first,” answered Biggles quietly.
And at that moment it happened. The Storch’s engine cut out dead. For perhaps half a minute the machine glided on, losing speed; then it swerved a little, as if the pilot had seen some open ground and was trying to reach it. In this he failed, and apparently realising what had happened, switched back to his gravity tank. He was too late. The machine stalled. The undercarriage caught in the rushes and the inevitable result was a somersault.
With one accord the watchers raced to the spot, but long before they got to it Ginger saw that it was hopeless. Not only was the machine on fire, but a considerable area of rushes around it was blazing furiously. The flames spread rapidly, and a great cloud of smoke billowed upwards.
Biggles stopped. “We’d better get out of this ourselves,” he said, with a twinge of anxiety in his voice. “That fire is travelling fast, and it’s moving towards the place where we parked our machines. There’s nothing more we can do here anyway. We might as well go home.”
[Back to Contents]
THE HARE AND THE TORTOISE
A STORY OF THE WAR
SQUADRON LEADER BIGGLESWORTH landed on his home airfield at Rawlham, in Kent, and taxied slowly to the camouflaged canvas shed that was the squadron’s workshop. On reaching it he switched off and sat for a moment contemplating several neat round holes on the right hand side of his cockpit, trying to work out the angle from which the bullets had been fired and how they had missed him.
Then, with a slight shrug, he jumped to the ground.
“Everything all right, sir?” asked Flight-Sergeant Smyth, who was waiting.
“Yes, she’s flying nicely,” answered Biggles. “Are there any ot
her machines out?”
“No, sir. Everyone’s home. I think most of the officers have gone to Tonbridge. I saw the tender go off about half an hour ago.”
Biggles nodded, and strolled thoughtfully towards the officers’ mess.
As he neared it a puzzled expression crept over his face, for someone was playing the piano; but not as it was usually played. Instead of the customary jangle of jazz, the quiet harmony of a Chopin nocturne drifted through the open window into the still evening air.
Having parked his flying kit in the hall Biggles opened the door of the ante-room. There was only one occupant, a stranger, who apparently had not seen him enter. He sat at the piano, a slight, pale youth, with fair hair. On his finely cut features there was an expression of inspiration as his fingers wandered over the keyboard. Suddenly, as if attracted by the personality of the man watching him, he turned sharply, and seeing that he was observed, stopped playing.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he stammered.
“What about?” Biggles raised his eyebrows. “Go on playing,” he invited. “It’s a change to hear real music.” He dropped into a chair by an open window.
“Are you Squadron Leader Bigglesworth by any chance?” asked the pianist.
“I am,” confirmed Biggles.
“Ah! The others told me you were out, sir, but would soon be back. So I waited. If it isn’t a rude question to ask, did you get a Messerschmitt?”
Biggles smiled faintly. “No. But one nearly got me. By the way, what are you doing here?”
“My name’s Daby, sir. I’ve been posted to your squadron.”
“I see. Well, we’ll talk about that tomorrow. Go on playing.”
For half an hour Biggles sat and listened. Under the influence of the music his aching nerves relaxed and for a little while he forgot the war.
