Biggles In Australia

by W E Johns

  Biggles was thinking fast. ‘Did you ever hear of a place up the Daly called the Flats?’ he asked, although he was anxious not to arouse the man’s suspicions by pushing his questions too hard.

  ‘No, can’t say as I have. But Taffy Walsh, over there, he’d know. He used to be on the old Maroubra, taking stores along and bringing down the nuts.’ Raising his voice the man called, ‘Taffy! Come over here.’ And when Taffy arrived he went on: ‘Here’s a feller wants to know what it’s like up the Daly.’

  The newcomer grinned. ‘Thinking of taking a holiday?’

  Biggles smiled back. ‘No. Just interested.’

  ‘Like crocodiles?’

  ‘I hate ‘em.’

  ‘Then keep clear o’ the Daly, ‘cause scalies are thicker there than fleas on a dog’s ear. I’ve see a dozen or more eighteen-footers crowdin’ on a few yards o’ mud bank.’

  ‘He was askin’ about a place called Daly Flats,’ said the first of Biggles’s new acquaintances. ‘Ever hear of it, Taffy?’

  ‘Yes. It’s away up the top of the river; if I remember right, above where the Daly swings north towards Arnhem Land. If you want a spear in your gizzard that’s the place to go.’

  ‘Are you serious? You really mean the natives are bad?’ queried Biggles, genuinely surprised, for he had supposed that dangerously hostile aborigines were a thing of the past.

  Not all of ‘em; but them as are bad are as bad as they make up. Keep out o’ their country. That’s my advice.’

  The conversation lingered on a little longer, but as soon as he could break away without appearing discourteous, Biggles left the establishment, and well satisfied with his evening’s work set about walking back to the airport. He had plenty to think about. Indeed, he had learned more than he expected. Outstanding, of course, was the surprising piece of information that the owner of the lugger was the Boller of Daly Flats, one of the names and addresses on the now important list. He was, apparently, reckoned to be an undesirable character even by Darwin standards, a port which, in its time, must have collected some tough types. Boller was believed to be a German. The man at Tarracooma Creek also had a German name — Roth. Adamsen, of Perth, might also be a German. It began to look as if the spy ring had been infiltrated from East Germany; or maybe von Stalhein and his associates had compiled a list of East Germans already domiciled in Australia. That was not to say, however, that they were active enemy agents. The Iron Curtain experts knew how to put pressure on unwilling, but sometimes helpless, persons. The scheme was beginning to take shape. Thus pondered Biggles as he strode on under a sky ablaze with stars, although occasionally they were partly blotted out by drifting masses of filmy cirro-cumulus cloud.

  It was past ten o’clock when he reached the airport. The others would, he knew, be back by now, anxious to hear his news. Well, he had some to give them.

  Walking past the hangars there was a minor incident which he was presently to remember, although at the time he didn’t give it a second thought, the reason being, no doubt, that the possibility of personal danger, in Darwin, did not enter his head. He stopped to pass the time of night with a mechanic who had been working late in one of the sheds, and as they stood there chatting, the moon, which had been behind a cloud, rode clear.

  It so happened, naturally perhaps, although without any conscious reason, Biggles was looking in the direction of the aircraft, and in the blue moonlight he saw, or thought he saw, an object move. What the object was he did not know. He couldn’t remember seeing it before. It looked like a hump of something. Had he not gathered an impression that the thing had moved he would have taken it for a bag of freight, or mail, that had by an oversight been dropped and left out. It was as if the object had been moving, but froze into immobility at the precise moment the moon appeared. In the matter of distance it was between thirty and forty yards from the Otter. Not in the least degree concerned beyond the undesirability of having an animal wandering loose on the landing area, to the peril of planes coming in, he merely said to the mechanic: ‘What’s that thing over there? Is it an animal or has somebody dropped something?’

  The mechanic looked, but at that instant the moon was overtaken by another patch of drifting cumulus; and as the object could no longer be distinguished the question was allowed to pass. The mechanic, apparently more concerned about getting home, strode on towards the airport buildings. Biggles went on to the machines.

  As he was soon to recall, he had yet another warning, although, still without the slightest suspicion of danger, he ignored it. As he drew close to the Otter, which was the nearer of the two machines, he glanced again at the ‘hump’, and saw, with faint surprise, that it was not as far away as he had estimated. The distance was less than twenty yards; but he still could not make out what it was.

  By this time he could hear the quiet murmur of voices inside the cabin, where the others were presumably together waiting for him, so he walked on to join them, and get a torch to examine the object that had puzzled him. Reaching the cabin door he turned to have a last look at it; and it was with a mild shock that he discovered that the thing, in some mysterious way, had not only closed the distance still more but had somehow flattened itself on the ground. Convinced now that it was an animal he took a pace towards it.

  What followed occupied not more than three or four seconds of time.

  The object, as black as night, leapt up. An arm went back, and Biggles realized for the first time that it was a man. Seeing that something was about to be thrown, he ducked instinctively. Almost simultaneously

  something swished over his head and struck the hull of the Otter with a crisp thud.

  Biggles’s reaction to the attack was to dart forward to seize his assailant; but the man twisted, and turning, raced away across the turf at fantastic speed, dodging and leaping in an extraordinary display of evading tactics. Pursuit was obviously futile. Biggles whipped out a pistol and got as far as raising it; but reluctant to alarm the aerodrome with gunshots he allowed his arm to drop, at the same time looking round to make sure the man had been alone. The moon reappeared. Not a soul was in sight.

  Artificial light spread a yellow patch on the grass as the door of the cabin was thrown open. Algy’s voice said: ‘That you, Biggles?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Biggles, somewhat breathlessly, for the suddenness of the attack had left him a trifle shaken.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t quite know.’

  ‘What was that thud? Something hit the cabin.’

  ‘It thundering nearly hit me,’ said Biggles grimly. ‘Let’s see what it was.’ Walking up to the hull he seized, and jerked free, a short, triple-barbed spear.

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ came Algy’s voice, aghast. ‘Did someone throw that at you?’

  ‘Yes. A native. And if I hadn’t come along, you, or the first person to open that door, would have got it. I saw the devil creeping up to the machine as I came along; but I wasn’t expecting anything like this. He may have thought we were all inside. I don’t know.’

  ‘He dropped something — or left it behind.’ Algy walked out a few yards and came back with a soft mass of something in his hands.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘Rag, or tow, or something of that nature. It’s wet. My gosh! It’s dripping with petrol.’

  ‘It looks as if the idea was to set fire to the machine. As they’re so close, if one had caught fire the other would have gone too.’

  ‘And if the door had been jammed we should have been trapped inside.’

  A voice from the cabin cried: ‘Here, I say, you fellers, What’s the flap?’

  ‘Let’s get inside,’ Biggles told Algy, in a hard voice.

  In the cabin the others were told what had happened. ‘What do you make of it?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘Obviously, somebody was hoping to get rid of us, or at least the machines. Which, equally obviously, means that that person knows we’re here, and what we’re doing.’

/>   ‘Von Stalhein.’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘No. He doesn’t work like that. Besides, he must still be at sea. The thing that puzzles me about this is how it has happened so quickly. I don’t think von Stalhein could have known we were here till he saw us at the island — wait a minute though! I’ve got it. The answer’s simple. That lugger, the Matilda, is fitted with radio. Of course it would be: to enable it to keep in touch with its headquarters. If we accept that, then several things become plain. As I see it now, what happened was this; and I’m pretty sure I’m right. This morning, the first thing that would hit von Stalhein when he realized we were on the job with an Australian police officer, was the boat lying on Eighty Mile Beach. Up to that moment it wasn’t worth bothering about. But now it could be an awkward piece of evidence. He knew perfectly well that if I hadn’t already been to look at it I should most certainly do so, and check up on it. It had to be got rid of. He radioed his headquarters, or Smith’s headquarters — call it what you like — to warn them. An aircraft — the Auster — was available. Some of the gang got into it, flew to the beach and burnt the boat. If that’s correct then the Auster is being kept either in Western Australia or the Northern Territory. What happens next? Smith, or somebody, guessing that we would base ourselves on Darwin, decides that we’d be better out of the way; so he brings along a cut-throat to mop us up.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that he keeps a supply of thugs on hand?’ questioned Algy dubiously.

  ‘From what I learnt tonight I see no reason why he shouldn’t,’ came back Biggles. ‘I’d better tell you about that, because it all adds up.’

  Biggles then revealed what he had gathered at the harbour. ‘So you see, Blackbeard is Boller, one of the names on the list. He’s a German who has a place at the headwaters of the Daly. In other words, Daly Flats. Ostensibly, he’s been clearing ground for peanuts. What he’s actually been doing, I suspect, is making a landing strip for an aircraft. Whites, I understand, are few and far between; but there, to Arnhem Land, have apparently retired those aborigines who want no truck with white men. Some of them are bad medicine. So I’m told. I don’t know. I’ve never been there. But as we may have to go we’d better check up on it. West must know the facts. He may be able to tell us the district where they use this type of spear — or put us on to somebody who can. He should be on duty now. I’ll walk along and ask him.’

  ‘Here, watch what you’re doing, old boy,’ protested Bertie. ‘This beastly bodkin may not be the only one on the airfield.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ retorted Biggles grimly. ‘If anyone comes close enough to me to chuck one, he’ll be the first to meet a piece of metal coming the other way. You watch the machines. From now on it means guard duty. Infernal nuisance; but not such a nuisance as trying to get a bunch of barbs out of your ribs.’

  ‘Well, chase Aunt Lizzie round the haystacks!’ exclaimed Bertie. ‘This native warrior stuff is all news to me. I thought Australia was civilized — if you get what I mean.’

  ‘So did I,’ returned Biggles. ‘And so, I imagine it is, except for — well, take a look at that spear. There’s nothing civilized about that. I’ll see what West has to say about it. I shan’t be long.’

  Taking the spear Biggles departed.

  He was away about half an hour. When he returned the others looked at him expectantly as he held out the spear. ‘West says this thing came out of Arnhem Land. He asked me how I got it. When I told him he thought I was kidding. Said that sort of thing didn’t happen here. I assured him that it did. He told me this top corner of Australia used to be called the triangle of death on account of the ferocity of the natives. Even today, with native reserves and all that sort of thing, they’re not to be trusted. That goes for the half-civilized natives who work up the Daly for the white planters. Incidentally, what struck me as odd — or significant if you like — was this. West said many of the early peanut farmers were Russians. I wonder does that mean anything. Any who are left would certainly employ some native labour. What I’m getting at is, that fellow who had a go at me couldn’t have had any personal grudge against me. He could have had no possible reason for wanting to set fire to us, anyway. Somebody sent him; somebody who knows how to handle the locals.’

  Biggles was silent for a while, his expression hardening. ‘You know, that thought puts an uncomfortable notion into my head.’ He paused again, and continued: ‘After what West told me I’d decided to do a high reconnaissance over the headwaters of the Daly; but that can wait for a bit. There’s no hurry. Airstrips don’t run away. And the Matilda can’t be back there yet, if that’s where she’s going. I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow morning I shall run down to Broome in the Halifax and have a word with Bill Gilson. Ginger can come with me. Algy, you take Bertie with you in the Otter and see if you can spot the Matilda. Don’t go near it. I’ll give you a course from the mouth of the Daly River to the island. If, on that course, you see a lugger heading for the Daly it’s pretty certain to be the Matilda. Get its position. That’s all I want. Take the machine up to the ceiling: the moment you spot the lugger, cut your engines and turn away. It doesn’t really matter if they see you, but it’d be better if they didn’t. When you’ve done that make for Broome. We’ll wait there for you.’

  ‘Okay,’ agreed Algy.

  ‘It’s getting late if we’re to make an early start. I’ll take first watch. The rest of you see about getting some sleep,’ concluded Biggles.

  * * *

  1 The rainy season.

  2 Canned food.

  CHAPTER IX

  Murder in the Outback

  It was still only nine o’clock the next morning when Biggles and Ginger arrived at Bill Gilson’s house, just in time to catch him going out. The airport superintendent had promised to keep an eye on the machine.

  Bill looked surprised to see them. ‘You fellers don’t waste any time,’ he observed cheerfully.

  ‘We’ve none to waste,’ returned Biggles, introducing Ginger. ‘Let’s go into the office. I want a word with you.’

  ‘Now listen, Bill,’ he went on, when they were settled. ‘Has Joe Hopkins, your old prospector pal, come in yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You mentioned he was overdue.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Is that customary?’

  ‘No. He’s usually pretty regular. The tucker he takes with him lasts just so long and no longer. There’s nothing to eat in the spinifex. If he isn’t soon in I shall have to do something about it.’

  ‘Are there any natives in the district he works?’

  Bill stared. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Are there?’

  ‘Yes. Plenty. But you didn’t worry about that. He knows them and they know him.’

  ‘There’s never any trouble with them?’

  A curious expression dawned on Bill’s face. ‘Now what made you ask that?’

  ‘Last night, on Darwin airport, one tried to spear me.’

  Bill’s expression turned to incredulity. ‘At Darwin! Are you pulling my leg?’

  ‘There was nothing funny about it, believe you me,’ retorted Biggles seriously. ‘I have reason to believe that the man was an Arnhem Lander. I also have reason to believe that the people I’m looking for, which includes Boller, one of the names on that list I showed you, have an airstrip at the top end of the Daly. They’ve certainly got one no great distance away. That’s where the Auster must have come from with the people who burnt the boat.’

  Bill shook his head. ‘There’s nothing queer in Australia about a private airstrip. Everyone flies — farmers, stockmen, doctors, everybody — and thinks nothing of it. We were about the first people to become what used to be called airminded. No doubt it was a matter of the distances people had to cover to get anywhere. To be fifty or a hundred miles from your nearest neighbour is nothing in this part of the world.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘I realize that. But you still haven’t answered my question about the general be
haviour of the natives.’

  ‘Well, since you mention it, there have been reports of — well, if not exactly trouble — difficulties. Of course, some of ‘em always have been awkward and unreliable; and lately, instead of getting more friendly, as you’d expect, there’s been what you might call a stiffening in their attitudes towards white men. Old Harry Larkin — he’s another old timer — told me the other day that a party on what they call walkabout had threatened him. I took it with a pinch of salt, although I must admit that Harry isn’t the sort to be easily scared. But what’s all this leading up to?’

  Biggles lit a cigarette. ‘You’ll call me an alarmist, I know, but it occurred to me last night that this is just how the trouble began in Malaya and Kenya.’

  When Biggles said that Ginger knew just when the thought had struck him, the previous evening, and he had paused in the middle of a sentence.

  Bill was staring. ‘Do you mean Mau-Mau, and that sort of thing?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

  Bill smiled sceptically. ‘But that couldn’t happen here.’

  ‘Why couldn’t it?’

  ‘Well, it just couldn’t, that’s all.’

  ‘Tell me why?’

  ‘Most of ‘em are in regular touch with whites.’

  ‘So they were in Africa.’

  ‘They’ve got their own reserves—’

  ‘So they had in Africa.’

  Bill shook his head. ‘I still don’t see how it could happen here.’

  ‘Neither, I imagine, could the settlers who took their wives and kids to outlying farms in Kenya, and now never move without a gun in each hand.’ Biggles went on. ‘Now look, Bill; I’m not the sort of man to get in a flap easily; and I own freely that I may be barking up a tree with nothing in it. I also own that when I came out here the last thing in my mind was trouble with the natives. I didn’t really know what I was looking for. But since I’ve been here one or two things have happened that have made me think hard. Last night, after that man had flung a spear at me, the idea suddenly came to me that the set-up in the sparsely populated areas of Australia is exactly the same as in East Africa. Natives, without settled homes, outnumbering the whites. Isolated homesteads far apart. Stockmen, farmers and prospectors out on their own.... It only needs one or two people to walk about telling the natives that white men are a lot of thieves who have swindled them out of their land, and turned them into slaves, and the next thing is murder.’ Biggles made a deprecatory gesture. ‘I may be quite wrong, but putting two and two together from what I’ve learnt since I came here, that was the ugly picture that suddenly crystallized in the fog. This dirty business is all part of the Cold War. It has worked in Malaya, Kenya, Indonesia, Burma and all over the Middle East, so I don’t see why it shouldn’t happen here. The men who landed in that stolen boat on Eighty Mile Beach came from behind the Iron Curtain, which is the general headquarters of the Cold War. I know more about them than you do. Whether I’m right or wrong about what they’re doing here, don’t kid yourself that they can’t hurt you, or that the technique that has worked in Asia and Africa couldn’t work in Australia.’ Biggles stubbed his cigarette.