by W E Johns
‘That is a bit awkward,’ agreed Biggles. ‘Suppose I flew you out to the island. Would that solve your problems?’
Gilson thought for a moment. ‘Yes, that’d do it. I suppose we could do the job in a day?’
‘Easily. If that’s agreed, the sooner we go the better. What about tomorrow?’
‘Suits me.’
‘Say, six o’clock tomorrow morning at the airfield.’
‘Okay. I’ll be there.’
‘Good. Then I’ll get along. Thanks for being so helpful.’
They shook hands and Biggles departed, thinking hard.
He found Ginger waiting in the hotel lounge. ‘Did you get the tanks topped up?’ he asked, dropping into the next chair.
‘No trouble at all,’ Ginger assured him. ‘What’s your news?’
‘In a nutshell: the lugger that went ashore on the island came from here. The body I found was the owner, a Japanese named Wada. The boat that brought von Stalhein and his party ashore belonged to the lugger. That all ties up with what we surmised. But what has set me thinking is this. Gilson, the police-sergeant, was helpful enough to check up on one of the names and addresses on that list you picked up. Adamsen, of Perth. It seems he’s a trouble-making agitator. The question is, how does he fit into the von Stalhein set-up?’
‘If he isn’t actually on the Iron Curtain pay-roll now he may have been listed as a prospective recruit.’
‘If that’s the case we must assume that the same applies to others on the list. Who compiled that list? There’s only one answer. An agent already planted here. With what object?’
‘To complete a network of spies against the time they’ll be needed.’
‘I don’t like the sound of that. If you’re right, then this is a more dangerous scheme than I had supposed. The trouble is, while these people remain passive they’re within the law and there’s nothing we can do about it beyond providing the Dominion with the gen so that on the outbreak of a war they could chuck a net over the whole bunch.’
‘If the von Stalhein gang intends to contact Adamsen and the others, by watching we might grab them — or tip off the police. We’ve got a case against them — for murder.’
‘We shall have, I hope, by this time tomorrow. We’re flying Gilson out to have a look at things. He knew Wada and will be able to provide evidence of identification. He’s meeting us at the airfield at six.’
‘While we’re there we might have another look round for some more pages from that file.’
‘That’s a good idea; but we can’t spend too long there. Gilson wants to get back and I shall have to find out what Algy’s doing. Let’s see about something to eat.’
* * *
1 The rabbit-proof fence which crosses the continental deserts from north to south. It is patrolled by riders who repair any damage done by the larger wild creatures —
kangaroos, wallabies, emus, and the like.
CHAPTER VI
Forestalled
The following morning the Otter left Broome on the hour, and just before seven the Island without a Name crept up over the horizon.
Bill Gilson — for in the easy going Australian manner they were now calling each other by their Christian names — who had evidently done some serious thinking about the affair, was now taking more than a passing interest in it, and posed questions for which so far there was no answer. Naturally, he inclined towards the official police angle. Biggles revealed what he knew, and what he surmised.
‘The snag where you’re concerned is this,’ Biggles told him. ‘Putting aside for the moment the question of murder, until you have proof that this gang is working against the interests of Australia there’s no point in taking them to court.’
‘Murder is plenty of reason,’ muttered Bill, grimly.
‘All right. Hang the lot — and then where are you? The purpose for which these people came here would be carried on by a fresh gang unknown to us. I believe now that I started off on the wrong foot. The first things that came into my head when I knew von Stalhein was here was the new rocket range, the atom bomb experimental sites and the uranium workings. They, of course, are bound to come into the picture; but I now suspect that the plot goes deeper than that. What I see now is a widespread organization that will not only keep the Iron Curtain countries informed of technical developments here, but might, by fomenting strikes and the like, upset your entire economy.’
‘You mean, through Communist propaganda.’
‘Call it that if you like; but Communism, in the place where it started, is now a handy political name for a military-minded clique that suffers from the old ambition of world domination. The trouble is, few of the people who get drawn into the thing realize that they’re lining up with a potential enemy, or that a cold war is just as deadly as a hot one. They’re never likely to get anything out of it, anyway. Of course, there are some who go Red in order to work off a grudge. Von Stalhein is a case in point. With him it’s personal. He hates us because Hitler lost the war. When he was a Nazi he hated Communism, and I’d wager he still does. But he’ll work for the Iron Curtain brigade because it offers him a way to have another crack at us. For that he has sacrificed his sense of humour, and any pleasure he might have got out of life.’
‘I gather he’s pretty tough.’
‘Tough?’ Biggles smiled wanly. ‘He’s so tough that if you hit him in the face with a stone the stone would go to pieces.’
With the island within gliding distance Biggles cut his engines and idled on. But as the calm water within the reef came into view he stiffened suddenly, staring through the windscreen. ‘Do you see what I see?’ he asked sharply.
‘A ship,’ said Ginger tersely.
‘Lugger,’ observed Bill, laconically, from behind Biggles’s shoulder.
‘What do you make of that?’ queried Biggles, gliding on.
‘Your guess is as good as mine. One lugger is much like another. Could be a pearler, put in for some reason or other. All I can say is it isn’t one of the Broome fleet.’
‘I can see people on the island... walking about... blacks as well as whites,’ observed Ginger.
‘Most luggers carry coloured crews,’ said Bill.
‘They haven’t heard us or they’d be looking up,’ said Ginger.
‘The rollers on the reef, and on the windward side, would prevent them from hearing anything,’ asserted Bill. ‘I’d say it’s just an odd chance that brought the lugger here.’
‘We shall soon know,’ murmured Biggles, sideslipping off a little height to glide straight in. ‘I shan’t run her up on the beach — she might as well stay afloat for the short time we shall be here.’
No more was said. The machine glided on, silently, the steady thunder of the breakers drowning any slight noise it might have made. There was no one on the deck of the lugger. The men ashore did not look up. From water level they were concealed by the scrub and the contours of the ground, so it seemed that the Otter made its landing unobserved. But as soon as Biggles touched his throttle to take the aircraft right on to the lugger a man appeared on deck, hurriedly, and, as it seemed to Ginger, in a state of started agitation — although, in the circumstances, the reason for this might have been natural, and innocent enough. He was a big man, black-bearded, and roughly dressed.
Bill read aloud the name on the vessel’s stern, ‘Matilda. Darwin.’
Biggles took the Otter into shallow water near the lugger. Ginger went forward and dropped the anchor.
Bill, who was of course in uniform, hailed the ship. ‘Hello, there! Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ came the answer.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Picking up a few fresh nuts.’
‘You’re a long way from home.’
‘With the water picked clean it’s time someone looked for new ground.’
Bill turned to Biggles. ‘I wouldn’t call the man a liar but neither would I bet he’s telling the truth,’ he said suspiciously. ‘Still,
his business isn’t likely to be ours so let’s get on with the job.’
‘Just a minute,’ returned Biggles. ‘There should be two skeletons lying on that beach within forty yards of us. They’ve gone. Bones don’t walk.’
‘The Matilda’s crew may have buried ‘em.’
‘Could be,’ agreed Biggles dubiously. ‘Ginger, there’s no need for you to come ashore. Stay here and watch the machine.’
‘All right.’ Ginger, looking at Biggles’s face, knew that he was puzzled by finding the Matilda there, and was not entirely satisfied by the explanation given by the man who was presumably the skipper. As Biggles and Bill stepped out and waded ashore he sat in the cockpit to watch events. Blackbeard, too, he noticed, was also watching, leaning on the rail, smoking a pipe; but there was something about his attitude that gave Ginger a feeling that this nonchalance was affected rather than genuine. What, he wondered, were the men ashore doing?
He wondered still more when, a few minutes later, two white and eight coloured men, came into sight from the direction of the thick scrub. Two workmen carried implements that were either spades or shovels. The party, still some distance away, seemed to be in a great hurry, the workmen being urged into a run by another man whose better style of dress suggested that he was in charge — possibly the mate of the lugger.
Ginger realized with a twinge of uneasiness that Biggles and Bill had not seen this procession, for they had already disappeared over the low ridge that formed the backbone of the island when it appeared. The thing struck him as being deliberate rather than accidental — as if the party had been watching, waiting for Bill and Biggles to get out of sight before showing themselves.
Ginger’s feeling of uneasiness mounted. Although he told himself that there was no reason for this he became increasingly aware that he was alone, with the others out of earshot. The booming of the breakers on the reef would smother any call for help. It was, therefore, with some anxiety that he watched the shore party hurry on towards their dinghy that had been pulled up on the beach.
He glanced at the lugger, twenty yards away, and saw that Blackbeard was watching him surreptitiously. Did that mean anything — or nothing? There was no answer to that, but he perceived with a sudden wave of apprehension what their position would be if anything happened to the aircraft — a thought that was no doubt prompted by the close proximity of the two craft. He wished fervently that the machine had been moored further away.
Again turning his attention to the shore party he saw that it had now reached the dinghy. Under the directions of the senior man, a big, fierce-looking Malay, it was hauled on to the water. Some of the workmen started to swim to the lugger. The white men moved forward to board the dinghy. One of them, Ginger noticed, walked with a slight limp. Suddenly there was something familiar about his figure. Ginger stared incredulously, telling himself that it was impossible, even though he knew his eyes were not deceiving him. The man was Erich von Stalhein.
For an instant Ginger remained rigid from shock, for the possibility of such an encounter was beyond the limits of his imagination. Recognition, he knew, was largely a matter of time and place. He had not associated von Stalhein with a pearling lugger, or, for that matter, with a desert island; and that, he could only conclude, was why he hadn’t recognized him earlier.
By this time the peril of his position had overcome the first stunning shock, and he was moving. What Blackbeard would do when his crew was aboard he didn’t know; nor did he waste time guessing. Only one thing mattered, and that was to get the machine well clear of the lugger.
Going forward, trying to behave as if his actions were of no real importance, he hauled in the anchor and returned to the cockpit. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Blackbeard beckoning the dinghy, although it was now nearly alongside. The Malay caught a rope, swarmed up it, and joined Blackbeard in a swift conversation.
Ginger waited for no more. The Otter, fanned by a slight breeze, was already drifting, but nothing like fast enough; for the lugger’s anchor was now coming up, and its propeller churning the water into foam set the machine rocking.
The Otter’s engines came to life. Even so, Ginger saw that it was going to be touch and go, for the lugger, ostensibly turning, was backing into his tail unit. Instinctively he shouted a warning, although he knew he was wasting his breath. The trouble was, he, too, had to turn to get clear, or run aground.
With teeth clenched, expecting every instant to hear the crash of a collision that would crumple his tail like tissue paper, he brought her bows round to open water. Even when the machine bounded forward under full throttle he was still not sure that he had escaped damage, for the roar of her engines drowned all other sounds and the hull was rocking in the turbulence caused by the lugger’s screw.
It was for this reason, because he was not certain that the machine was airworthy, that he did not actually leave the water. As soon as he was sure that he was clear he throttled back and merely skimmed on to the far side of the area of calm water, where he jumped up to ascertain if the aircraft had suffered damage. To his great relief all appeared to be well, so turning to open water, ready to take off should it become necessary, he looked to see what the lugger was doing. His nerves relaxed when he saw that it was heading at full speed for the open sea.
Biggles and Bill were running down the beach.
After waiting for a minute to recover his composure, for he had been badly shaken, he turned again and cruised slowly towards them.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ was Biggles’s greeting.
‘You might well ask,’ answered Ginger grimly. He jerked a thumb at the retreating lugger. ‘Those devils tried to ram me. Nearly got me, too. I recognized him just in time.’
‘Recognized who?’
‘Von Stalhein.’
It was Biggles turn to stare. ‘You mean — he’s in that ship?’
‘He was on the island at the same time as you — with as pretty a gang of toughs as you ever saw. From the way they ran back to the lugger I have an idea they spotted you. Or if von Stalhein didn’t actually recognize you he must have taken a dislike to Bill’s uniform.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I had a feeling they might try something so I got cracking on a quick move. It took me a minute to get the hook up and by that time the lugger was backing into me. I must have got clear by a whisker. It may have looked like an accident, but it wasn’t. They knew what they were doing all right. Had they sunk me, or stove my tail in, we should have been three Robinson Crusoes without even a parrot.’
Biggles looked at Bill. ‘So now we know,’ he said simply.
‘What do you know?’ asked Ginger.
‘Why Wada’s body has disappeared. That goes for the skeleton’s, too. No bodies, no murder. Trust von Stalhein to think of that. He came back here to clean up — perhaps look for any papers that were left about. Those lists of names, for instance. It might take him some time to get a duplicate set from where they originated.’
‘I take it you didn’t find any.’
‘We did not. We didn’t get much time to look. Your engines starting up brought us back in a hurry.’
‘They’ve buried Wada’s body,’ said Ginger. ‘At any rate, I assume that they’ve buried something because two of the crew were carrying shovels.’
‘Who was with von Stalhein?’ asked Biggles.
‘There was only one other white man in the party. I can’t say I recognized him but I’ve an idea he was one of the bunch in the photograph. A hair-cut and a shave would alter his appearance.’
Bill stepped into the conversation. ‘I could still get this guy von Stalhein. I realize that there’s nothing we can do about the lugger at the moment; but we know her name and we shall be home first. What about meeting him when he steps ashore?’
Biggles smiled wanly. ‘You don’t know von Stalhein. Even if he didn’t recognize me he must know that the arrival of an aircraft and a policeman at an out-of-the-way island like thi
s was no mere fluke. Note how he took the precaution of coming back here to clean the place up. No doubt by this time his brain is busy working out what we’re likely to do next.’
‘I’ll get him,’ declared Bill doggedly.
‘All right. And what are you going to do with him when you’ve got him? Even if you dug up the whole island and found Wada’s body you still wouldn’t be able to prove that von Stalhein did the shooting. In fact, knowing how he works, I’d risk a small bet that he didn’t pull a trigger. He’s a wily bird, and he’d leave that to someone else. Suppose you did grab him, and examined his gun — and found it clean? Or of a different calibre from those bullets I gave you? He’d laugh at you, and you’d have exposed your hand for nothing.’
‘Are you suggesting that we let him walk away scot free?’
‘Certainly not. I’m merely trying to point out that we may do more harm than good by going off at half cock, whichever way we look at it, yours or mine.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You, naturally, are concerned about a murder that has been committed. To me that’s only a side issue. I’ve got to find out what von Stalhein and his gang are doing in Australia, and stop them at it, before they can do worse mischief than murder. To me the important thing about our trip here is the name of that lugger. The owner, or the skipper — probably the same — is in the racket, and that should lead us somewhere. My next step will be to check up on the Matilda at Darwin. I own freely that it didn’t occur to me that von Stalhein might come back here. It might have been to cover up his tracks, or there may have been other reasons. He may have needed money. We found some notes. He may have hoped to find some instruments that were lost. We found a Geiger Counter. But let’s not waste time guessing. The fact remains, he came back, and he has presumably destroyed all evidence of what happened here. I suggest that as we’re here we might as well have a look round in case anything was overlooked. Then I’ll take you home and push on to Darwin.’
