Biggles and the Pirate Treasure

by W E Johns

  ‘He may try it again.’

  ‘Exactly. Special men will be watching for them.’

  ‘What’s the official theory on the case?’

  ‘We believe these diamonds were smuggled in, and subsequently stolen by a professional burglar who sold them cheaply to the man in whose possession we found them. Only a cracksman would know that that particular pawnbroking business was a cover for receiving hot jewellery. The man from whom they were stolen wouldn’t dare to report their loss, knowing that we would want to know how he got hold of them.’

  ‘He’s not likely to know you’ve got them.’

  ‘He couldn’t possibly know. All he knows is, they were taken by an unknown thief. He may wonder what has happened to them, but he’d have no means of finding out. That’s to our advantage, because having outwitted the Customs people once he’s almost certain to try the same trick again. I may say that enquiries have revealed that America, France and Holland, have been worried by the sudden appearance of high-quality uncut stones; which suggests that the racket is being run on an international scale.’

  ‘I take it that all efforts to trace these particular stones have failed.’

  ‘Nothing is known of them in the legitimate trade. That’s why we’re holding them here. Legally they belong to the pawnbroker, although he has no use for them where he is. We can’t force him to say where they came from, even if he knows.’

  ‘What’s the next move?’

  The Air-Commodore sat back in his chair. ‘Now look, Bigglesworth. There’s more to this than mere smuggling. Diamonds, like gold, help to stabilize the economy of every civilized country. Any quantity of uncontrolled stones would lower the price of honest diamonds in the world markets. That in turn would upset the value of those held as security for loans by banks and business houses. The consequences of a slump would be serious. It has nearly happened more than once and there’s obviously a risk of it happening now.’

  ‘But if, as you say, you know where these sparklers started from, it shouldn’t be difficult to stop the leak at that end.’

  ‘It may be more difficult than you suppose. These particular specimens came from South-West Africa. The experts who have seen them are agreed on that. The most valuable diamond field in the world is Alexander Bay, at the mouth of the Orange River. The stones are not born there, as you might say. They have been washed down by flood water through ages of time. Where they started from no man knows. Be sure plenty have tried to find out. Many have lost their lives in the attempt, for the upper river flows through some of the worst country in the world — much of it barren, waterless waste, or a chaos of rock and sand.’ The Air-Commodore pushed the cigarette box forward, and continued. ‘Now because South Africa stands to lose more than any other country in the event of a slump in diamonds, its government has taken the most elaborate precautions to prevent that from happening. Places that are known to hold diamondiferous gravel are closed territory. Prospecting for diamonds is forbidden by law, and anyone found in those areas is liable to be arrested and convicted as a diamond poacher. It is a crime to be found in possession of an uncut diamond. The actual diamond fields are protected by patrols, fences, searchlights, and so on; but in spite of all this, because it isn’t practicable to watch thousands of square miles of country all the time, a few stones do leak out. The authorities know that, but the leakage isn’t regarded as serious. Anyway, it can’t be stopped. The Hottentots and Bushmen who manage to exist in these regions know the value of diamonds. Some of them also know where stones can be found — and take care to keep it a secret. The temptation to buy these stones is great, and there are white men willing to take the risk. But this leakage is only a trickle. Of course, the law about dealing in uncut diamonds doesn’t apply outside South Africa, so the real problem of the illicit buyer is how to get them out of the prohibited area. After that he’s safe, provided he doesn’t try to smuggle them into countries where duty is payable. Apparently that’s being done — as these stones on the table bear witness.’

  Biggles lit a cigarette. ‘Where do I come into this? Is there reason for thinking that aircraft come into the picture?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s only surmise, based on the fact that control in South Africa has been so tightened, both by land and sea patrols, that it’s hard to see how any form of surface craft could get through.’

  ‘What would you like me to do about it?’

  ‘Well, as it’s impossible to trace the diamonds from this end, I thought if you weren’t busy you might run down to South Africa, very quietly, to see if there’s a clue to be picked up at that end. If there are traces of aircraft operating in the district you should be able to spot them.’

  ‘But surely if an aircraft was being used it must have been seen by someone?’

  ‘By whom? Hottentots? Bushmen? White men are few and far between in the Kalahari Desert and the deadly Kaokovelt. Anyway, who takes any notice of an aeroplane these days? There are regular transcontinental services, of course, but you can ignore those.’

  ‘What about private services?’

  ‘There’s only one what you might call private owner in the district, registered for business purposes. You needn’t worry about him. He was there long before this question arose. No doubt the police vetted him pretty thoroughly when he applied for his licence. They’re satisfied he’s all right — not that he could be otherwise, considering where he lives.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘In the bad country north of the Orange River. That’s why he uses a plane.’

  ‘Who is he? I may meet him.’

  ‘A German doctor named Shultz.’

  ‘What’s his line of business?’

  ‘Collecting monkeys. The country round him swarms with them.’

  Biggles stared. ‘What on earth does he want monkeys for?’

  ‘He exports them.’

  ‘But who wants all these monkeys?’

  ‘You’d be surprised. Originally Shultz used to supply zoos all over the world — trapping them or buying them from natives. Now they are in demand for medical research. America buys them in hundreds for tests in connection with radio-activity. It seems that monkeys suffer from seasickness so Shultz flies them, or has them flown, to a place in Algeria which he maintains for the purpose. From there they are distributed to whoever wants them. Don’t look startled. Our own airways have often carried cargoes of monkeys.’

  ‘I’d hate to fly a load.’

  ‘They’re sealed off in small compartments and the pilot is protected by a screen of wire netting in case they should get loose.’

  ‘I should jolly well think so. People certainly choose some queer occupations. Fancy being a monkey-monger!’ Biggles got up. ‘All right, sir. I’ll waffle along with my lads and see if I can make anything of it. If all else fails I may collect a few diamonds myself and retire on the proceeds.’

  The Air-Commodore smiled. ‘Good idea — as long as you don’t get caught. It might be less dangerous to bring home a load of monkeys.’

  Biggles grinned. ‘Come to think of it I might bring both. After all, if planes can carry monkeys I don’t see why monkeys shouldn’t carry diamonds. See you later, sir.’

  For a week the old Air Police Halifax — which may have seen more service than any aircraft of its type — had kicked the air behind it over those harsh, unlovely areas of South-West Africa, which, by a whim of nature, yield the earth’s most exquisite jewels.

  As Ginger once remarked, as he looked down on the almost lifeless wilderness that lies between the Kumene River and Cape Cross, it was as if nature had devised a scheme deliberately to lure men to their doom. For if this sun-scorched strip of sand and rock, known as the Kaokovelt, holds diamonds, it also holds the bones of many of those who risked their lives to find them.

  So far, the only incident to mark the monotony of a quest that was fast becoming wearisome, had occurred when the Halifax had been shadowed by a South African Police patrol. It had followed them to Kleetma
nshoop airfield, where Biggles had satisfied the officer in charge by producing papers which showed that he was on an official flight of survey, mapping a projected new route to the Cape.

  This subterfuge had been arranged by Air-Commodore Raymond to cover the real purpose of the expedition. It had served its purpose admirably, facilitating maintenance at the several airfields on which the Halifax had landed. Biggles had supported the papers he carried by not staying more than two days at any one place, using in turn the aerodromes from Windhock in the north to Uperton in the south. To the east and west of this line lay most of the territory under inspection, the Namib Desert running as far as the sea to the west, and the notorious Kalahari to the east.

  It must be made clear that Biggles was concerned primarily with the possible air aspect of the case, and that in so far as the illicit diamonds were evading Customs duties, not only in Britain but in the other countries that contributed to Interpol (the International Police Commission) of which he was British Air Representative. What he hoped to do was pick up the trail that ran from South-West Africa to Europe. That such a trail existed was proved by the gems which, almost by a fluke, had fallen into the hands of Scotland Yard.

  He did not expect to have the luck of spotting the culprit aircraft, should one in fact exist, in the air. What he was actually doing was looking for an aircraft on the ground, or indications that one had landed; for landing wheels can leave tracks, on otherwise unmarked ground, that may persist for years, although they may not be visible from ground level. Apart from that there might be empty oil drums, fuel containers and the like.

  This was not such a hopeless task as it might appear, for although there were hundreds of thousands of square miles to cover it was only necessary to search the level areas on which it was possible for an aircraft to land. Mountains, rock country, and swamp, such as the vast Etosha Pan, could be ignored. However, there was nothing to show for a week’s hard work. And hard work it was. The aircraft rocked in the superheated, rarified air, and there was no question of flying ‘hands off.’ Keeping the machine on even keel was sometimes a matter of physical strength.

  Aside from that there was the nervous strain of knowing that in the event of engine or structural failure, forcing an emergency landing, there would be little hope of rescue. Biggles, who had Ginger, Algy and Bertie with him, lightened the labour by allowing everyone in turn to have a day off.

  So far they had not called on Shultz, the monkey man, whose place happened to be in a corner of the Kalahari Desert which had not yet been covered.

  It was on the eighth day that they saw their first Bushmen, those small primitive natives who, retreating before the tide of civilization, have learned how to exist in conditions which no other race could endure. What happened was this. Biggles, with his full crew on board, was reconnoitring the area north-east of the Grosse Karas mountains, perhaps twenty miles from Shultz’s zoological establishment. As a matter of detail it had been Ginger’s day off, but he had decided to come to see the monkeys in case Biggles should call on the doctor, although this was not on the schedule. The heat-haze was bad, and Biggles was fighting his way low through the bumps, when in a wide stretch of flat country something was observed that could not be identified from the air. There were four objects, close together, all the same size; and from the perfectly square shadows which they cast it seemed impossible that they could be rocks. Biggles made two low runs over them, and all in the aircraft were agreed that the objects were, or had been, containers of some sort. To settle any doubt about it Biggles took a chance, landed, and taxied up to them. They all got out and the question was answered.

  The objects were what have become known as jerry-cans, those excellent petrol containers used by the German forces in the war. Biggles picked one of them up. ‘It’s full!’ he exclaimed, in a voice of astonishment.

  They were standing there discussing the mystery, for there were no wheel marks or anything else to show how the cans had got there, when from a bush-covered hole in the ground - which Biggles had taken care to avoid thinking it was a dead bush - appeared six undersized, wizened, brown men, whose only garment was a small skin apron. They carried miniature bows and arrows, and spears, and their attitude was definitely hostile.

  ‘Bushmen,’ murmured Biggles. ‘Watch your step. They poison their arrows.’

  He replaced the can he had picked up, and as the natives advanced threateningly, held out his hands to show that he was unarmed.

  Conversation was not possible, of course, for none of them knew the Bushman language, so all they could do was try to indicate by signs that they did not want the cans; for the little men were making it clear that the cans were theirs.

  ‘Let’s get airborne, old boy,’ advised Bertie. ‘I’ve no argument with poisoned bodkins, no, by Jove!’

  ‘Just a minute,’ answered Biggles. ‘We must try to get to the bottom of this.’ Facing the Bushmen, who had stopped a few yards away, he pointed to his mouth as if he were thirsty.

  Upon this the natives went into a huddle and did some uncouth chattering.

  At the end, a decision apparently having been reached, one of them produced a half-gourd and, opening a can with a dexterity which revealed that this was not the first time, he poured out about a tablespoonful of liquid.

  Biggles took the cup, sipped the fluid cautiously, then drank it.

  ‘Water,’ he told the others, smiling as he handed back the cup. ‘Sweet water, too, although somewhat tepid. That still doesn’t explain how that particular type of can got here.’

  ‘Since we can’t ask these lads we shall have to go on guessing,’ Algy pointed out.

  Biggles produced his cigarette case and gave a smoke to each of the natives. The cigarettes were accepted, but without enthusiasm. The Bushmen obviously knew what they were, for one of them produced a pipe into which he pushed his cigarette, paper as well. Another took a tin box from a skin bag slung on his girdle; and Ginger saw with surprise that the box was already nearly full of tobacco.

  Nothing could be said. Nothing more could be done, so with a final smile and a wave Biggles walked back to the aircraft. He did not go at once to the cockpit but waited for the others to join him. Then he said: ‘I don’t know about you but I found that all very interesting. To start with, these chaps have jerry-cans, and while they may be common enough in North Africa there can’t be many in these parts. The water in them is good water, not the sort you’d expect to find in the possession of men who spend half their time sucking moisture out of the sand through hollow reeds. And they’ve plenty of it. They’ve tobacco — good tobacco, too; not that hard-baked trade stuff. One, at least, has a brand new pipe. Two can sport new jack-knives. One, you may have noticed, had a couple of curtain rings in his hair. Where did they get these things? You don’t find ‘em kicking about in the wilderness.’

  ‘They’ve obviously been in touch with a white man,’ answered Algy.

  ‘Obviously is the word,’ agreed Biggles. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Since Shultz lives no great distance away he’s most likely to be the Santa Claus.’

  ‘Correct again. Why does he dish out this sort of stuff to the Bushmen? There are several thousands of them in the Kalahari, and if Shultz made a practice of giving things away the word would go round and he’d be inundated with visitors. Or put it this way. What possible service could the Bushmen give Shultz to earn things which to them must be treasures — things which they couldn’t otherwise obtain?’

  ‘They could help him to catch monkeys,’ suggested Ginger.

  ‘Could be. But where are the monkeys? Have you seen any trotting around on these blistering sands? No. Monkeys have more sense than to live in this sort of country. You’ll find them in the ravines and gorges of the mountains, where there’s food, water, and shade. I may be wrong, but there’s something about Bushmen and monkeys that doesn’t quite fit.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ said Algy slowly. ‘We’ve seen the Bushmen. It might be a good idea t
o drift along and see the monkeys.’

  ‘Precisely,’ returned Biggles, drily.

  Murmured Bertie: ‘As they say in the newspapers at home, the police are anxious to interview Mr. Shultz, who they think might be able to assist them in their enquiries.’

  ‘The first thing is to find the gentleman,’ averred Biggles. ‘Let’s get mobile.’

  There was no difficulty in locating Dr. Shultz’s establishment, for in a district where a real house was a phenomenon the few that did brave the wastes were as conspicuous as bees on a whitewashed ceiling. Moreover, the monkey merchant’s home was no rude shack; it was a substantial bungalow with extensive out-buildings, and, what was even more remarkable, a garden — or at any rate, a patch of cultivated ground.

  The site explained this apparent miracle, for it nestled in an elbow of a valley that must have drained the rugged hills on either side, thus providing the one thing without which the enterprise would not have been possible. The valley, in comparison with the brown desert into which it fell, was green, and anything green in a land of parched sterility speaks eloquently of water.

  Wheel marks in the sand beyond the herbage also told a story, although no vehicle was in view. The marks, it could be noted, converged on a wood-and-corrugated-iron building large enough to accommodate an aircraft.

  Some half a dozen Hottentots who were moving about stopped work to stare.

  Biggles landed along the tracks, taxied on to as near the bungalow as was seemly, and switched off.