by W E Johns
Evans answered the question without hesitation. Yes, he knew: The man was Johnston, a chemist in Aclim Street. He employed the same man himself. Indeed, he had recommended him to Hagen when his neighbour had asked who was the best man for such work.
This was all Ginger wanted to know, and as soon as he could do so without appearing discourteous, he took his leave, and with Bertie set off for their next step in their line of investigation.
They found Mr Johnston in his shop, and Ginger came straight to the point. He said he thought Mr Johnston knew the late Mr Hagen, and Johnston agreed that he did.
‘Did Mr Hagen bring you any spools for development just before he died?’ asked Ginger.
Johnston shook his head, ‘No, not for some time.’
Ginger’s heart sank. ‘You do the photographic work yourself?’
‘Of course.’
‘In which case you would see the prints? Did you ever develop for him any films showing flamingos in their nests?’
Again Johnston shook his head. ‘No – never.’
Ginger drew a deep breath. ‘That’s all I wanted to know. Sorry I troubled you. Thanks for answering my questions.’
Disappointed, he was turning away when Johnston called him back. ‘If it’s photos of nesting flamingoes you want, I can tell you who has some.’
‘Who?’ asked Ginger, trying not to show his excitement.
‘I’ve just remembered. Within the last day of gentleman came in with a spool for developing and printing. Very good they were too.’
‘Have you copies?’
‘No, I don’t keep copies. I handed over the prints with the films.’
Ginger steadied himself to speak naturally. ‘Would you mind telling me who brought the spools to you?’
‘Just a minute.’ With irritating deliberation Johnston produced his order book and ran a finger down the list of names. ‘Here we are. It was a Mr Stalling, a visitor staying at the Maison Respiro. How he managed to get the photographs I don’t know...’
But Ginger was no longer listening. He had learned all he wanted to know, and hardly trusting himself to speak, made his way into the street.
‘Imagine it,’ he said bitterly to Bertie, ‘After all that von Stalhein has the photos. Here we are, tearing about, while, he calmly....’ He nearly choked.
‘Yes, I must say it’s a bit steep,’ agreed Bertie. ‘What a comfounded pest the fellow is with his infernal tricks.’
‘Well, the sooner we let Biggles know about this the better,’ declared Ginger, recovering somewhat. ‘We know where von Stalhein hangs out. We may still be in time to put a wasp in his little pot of jam.’
‘Biggles won’t be back yet, if he has to spend time messing about with Hagen’s boat,’ reminded Bettie.
‘Then we shall have to wait for him. If we go to the harbour or the airport we may miss him and waste time. Let’s get back.’
Bertie’s fears proved unfounded, for when they got home Biggles and Algy were already there. Biggles, Ginger noticed, looked worried. He would, he thought, look still more worried when he heard the news about the photographs.
‘You’re soon back,’ greeted Ginger. ‘You couldn’t have spent much time on the yacht.’
‘We didn’t spend any time on it,’ corrected Biggles, with a touch of asperity.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it wasn’t there.’
Ginger stared.
‘Nobody had even missed it,’ went on Biggles cuttingly. ‘We went to police headquarters to ask them to lend us someone who knew where the Vega was moored. A fellow came with us. When we got to the place there was no yacht. All the Port Authorities could tell us was a fisherman found someone had used his dinghy in the night and then turned it adrift. No doubt it had been used to get out to the yacht and then abandoned. What’s your news?’
‘Worse than yours, if anything,’ Ginger said apologetically. ‘Von Stalhein got hold of the flamingo photos. He took the films to Hagen’s photographer be developed and collected them later – the films and the prints. I’m afraid he’s got away with them. There are no spare copies.’
Biggles took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘That hooks up,’ he said slowly. ‘After learning from Evans about the birds, von Stalhein must have fetched the camera from Rumkeg Haven, and finding a film in it had it developed. Now he has the clue he wanted.’
‘What about grabbing him and taking it off him?’ suggested Ginger belligerently.
Biggles smiled wanly. ‘Don’t be silly. Who do you suppose pinched the yacht?’
‘You think von Stalhein took it?’
’Who else? When we found the yacht had gone I got the police to make discreet enquiries at the Maison Respiro. Two guests checked out last night. They were Mr Ernest Stalling and a man who registered as Boris Zorotov, alleged to be a displaced person from Eastern Europe here to study social conditions. Mr Zorotov, I suspect, was the cold-eyed stooge we saw near the bandstand. They didn’t depart by passenger steamer. There wasn’t one. And they didn’t go by air because the plane had left. If I’m any good at guessing they went in a small yacht named the Vega.’
‘Well! Blow me down,’ murmured Bertie, polishing his eyeglass. ‘Stumped by Jove!’
Ginger dropped into a chair. ‘Give me a cup of tea, someone,’ he pleaded.
CHAPTER 6
CLOSER RECONNAISSANCE
The situation that had developed was discussed until bedtime and resumed early the following morning. The result, in a word, was a decision to try to locate the missing yacht. From the air, it was thought, this should be possible if not easy. Von Stalhein, assuming that he taken it, would not overlook the probability of a pursuit, and would be unlikely to stay on the open sea; at any rate, during the hours of daylight. Apart from that, it was possible that with a forty hour start he had reached his destination, wherever that might be. Finally, it could be supposed that he was not alone in the Vega.
But the big question that exercised Biggles’s mind was, how much did von Stalhein know? Obviously he knew something or he wouldn’t have left Jamaica. Was he relying on the flamingo photographs to take him to the right island? That the photographs were in some way responsible for his hasty departure Biggles did not doubt, for, as he argued, there had been nothing to prevent von Stalhein leaving Jamaica earlier had he so wished. ‘If we look at it like that,’ he said, ‘We must presume that von Stalhein has now got the information he was looking for.’
‘Even if he managed to find the right island, what good would that do him?’ enquired Algy. ‘He couldn’t dig up the whole place.’
‘He wouldn’t be likely to a try,’ replied Biggles. ‘We must reckon, therefore, that he has something definite, something more specific, on which to work. We realized from the start that he might be in possession of details about which we know nothing. Indeed, it seems likely when we remember that von Stalhein and Hagen were old friends, and were in touch with each other right up to the time of Hagen’s death. Clearly, von Stalhein didn’t know exactly where the plans and things were hidden, or he would have grabbed them, regardless of his association with Hagen. Maybe Hagen knew that. He may have told von Stalhein so much but withheld the final key, so to speak. The letter he was writing when he died almost proves that.’
‘Why should Hagen hold out on von Stalhein?’ asked Ginger. ‘I mean, why didn’t he turn up the documents earlier? Why hang on to them?’
Biggles shrugged. ‘That doesn’t matter now. The fact remains he didn’t, and one can think of several reasons why. Maybe he didn’t altogether trust him. Maybe he didn’t like von Stalhein’s new politics. Maybe he wanted to have the handling of the stuff himself, rather than have someone else hand it over to a foreign power of which he disapproved. But as I say, that doesn’t matter now. We’re concerned with the present, not with the past, and I feel that the first thing to do is to find out where von Stalhein has gone, for where the Vega drops anchor will not be far from Hagen’s cache. That, clearly, is what von
Stalhein thinks, so let us find the Vega for a start.’
‘Why did he pinch the Vega?’ asked Algy. ‘He knew we were here. He knew we’d be told that the Vega had disappeared. He must have realized that we’d put two and two together. Why expose his hand?’
‘What else could he do? He wanted to go somewhere, and to go anywhere from an island you need a craft of some sort. To hire a vessel would not only have been costly; the owner or his crew would have been on board; they might have asked questions – or seen too much. Don’t forget that these islands once bristled with pirates, and rumours of treasure are common. Almost everyone is on the look-out for anything smelling of a secret hoard. Von Stalhein didn’t want any tittle-tattle of that sort about his movements. The Vega was an obvious choice and he’s got away with it. Now we’ve got to find him.’
‘The sound of aero-engines will warn him that we’re about,’ put in Ginger doubtfully.
‘It might, but not necessarily. Ours isn’t the only machine in the sky. He may wonder, but as he can’t know what type of aircraft we are using he couldn’t be sure. Anyway, we shall have to take a chance on that. Let’s go.’
And so the search began. It lasted all day, in two sorties which extended to the safety limit of fuel. There were now two things to look for: the yacht Vega, and the secondary colony of flamingos. Neither was found. They were out again early the following morning, taking turns to fly the aircraft, and when they returned to base every scrap of land within a hundred and fifty miles of Inagua had been surveyed without result. Biggles was frankly worried. To add to his difficulties, the weather had shown signs of deteriorating. There had been heavy rain in the night, and even while they were out they had several times been forced to turn from their course to avoid ugly thunderstorms, which, spilling their liquid contents, came sweeping up from the south.
‘Well, I don’t know what else we can do,’ said Biggles wearily, as they rested after lunch. ‘Has anyone any suggestions?’
‘I’ll tell you something that occurred to me this morning,’ answered Ginger. ‘It may mean nothing but thinking about it coming home it struck me that it might give us a new angle. As we came back near Inagua I noticed that the big lagoon had changed its shape.’
Biggles nodded. ‘Yes, I thought that, too.’
‘And some new stretches of water had formed near it – the result of all this rain, I imagine.’
Biggles looked up hopefully. ‘Did any one of them strike you as being like the sketch?’
‘No. I wouldn’t go so far as that. But there was one, fairly near the sea, that bore a slight resemblance. It occurred to me that if the lagoons can change their shape as easily as that, one of them might eventually take the shape of the outline drawn by Hagen – according to the time of the year and the amount of rainfall. At all events, none of these lagoons is constant.’
‘So we come back again to Inagua,’ murmured Bertie.
‘There was always a chance of it,’ resumed Biggles. ‘What Hagen told Evans about a second flamingo colony might have been a deliberate attempt to put him off the track, should he try to find out where he had been.’
‘Just a minute,’ said Ginger, in a curious voice. ‘Have you got Hagen’s letter handy – the one he wrote to von Stalhein?’
‘I’ve got a translation.’
‘That’s no use. I mean the original.’
‘I’ve a photo of it.’
‘That’ll do. Let me have a dekko at it.’
Biggles opened his valise. ‘What’s the idea?’
‘Either I’m kidding myself or I’ve just had a brain wave,’ answered Ginger. ‘If I remember rightly the last word of the letter was “in”.’
‘Correct.’
‘That might have been the first syllable of Inagua.’
A strange expression crossed Biggles’s face. He put the photograph of the letter on the table and stared at it. ‘By jingo! I believe you’re right! From the way Hagen wrote the letter “i” it might well be a capital. And it would make sense. He says: “The papers, etc., are safe, and in…’ He might have been going to say “and Inagua is the island in question ... or the place I told you about...’ or something like that. And here we’ve been talking about Inagua, and flying round the place, and that never struck me. My brain must be getting addled. Ginger, I believe you’ve got something. Full marks. We may be wrong, but the possibility that we’re right is worth exploring. It’s a bit late to do anything today but we’ll get all set for tomorrow and give the place a really close examination.’
‘If von Stalhein is there, he’ll see us,’ Algy pointed out.
‘For a start I shall go over very high and check the shape of the lagoon. That’s obviously the first thing to do. I hadn’t realized that rain could cause it to alter so quickly. Which can only mean that it’s shallow. Hagen may not have realized it, either. He may have made his sketch at high water. If the yacht is there it can only mean that von Stalhein believes Inagua to be the place. We ought to be able to see a yacht. Even a small craft like the Vega isn’t easily hidden on an open coast and that goes for most of Inagua.’
‘Suppose one of the lagoons is the right shape, and the Vega is there, what are you going to do about it?’ asked Ginger.
‘Obviously, we could do nothing from the air. It would mean landing and foot-slogging.’ Biggles thought for a moment. ‘The first thing would be to check up on the square dot shown on the sketch, close to the outline. We don’t know what it represents, but it must have some special significance, or Hagen wouldn’t have put it there. Anyhow, it’s all we have to go on. If it fails – well that’s that. To search the entire island without even knowing what sort of receptacle we’re looking for would be futile. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. One thing at a time, and the first is to check up on this new lagoon idea. It’s too late to do anything today, so let’s get organized for tomorrow. We’ll take food and water in case we decide to land. Study the chart everyone, and get the island fixed in your minds in case we get separated. Better take pocket compasses, too. I know the ground looks reasonably open, but there’s a lot of it, and, as far as I can make out, there’s not a road of any sort – not that there’s anywhere for a road to lead to.’ Biggles opened the map on the table and looked at it.
‘If you decide to land, where do you reckon would be the best place?’ asked Algy.
‘Well, if we’re going to have a look at this mark at the end of the lagoon, it would be as near to that as possible. But we can’t fix anything definite until we know if the Vega is there, and if so, where it’s moored. We can hardly land alongside without getting involved in a rumpus. After all, we don’t know how many men von Stalhein has with him. He isn’t a sailor. He’d need a pilot, or a navigator, or someone who knows something about the handling of boats.’ Biggles continued his study of the map. ‘There seem to be several possibilities. There’s this place here, for instance – Man-o’-War Bay. That might mean anything, though. We’d better wait until we get there and use our own judgment from what we can actually see. It may be years since the original survey was checked and things change.’
‘Why not land on the lagoon?’ suggested Ginger. ‘That would at least be calm water, and plenty of it.’
‘I’d rather not risk that until we know the depth. I feel sure it must be shallow or the level wouldn’t rise and fall as it does. We should look silly if we ripped our keel off trying to get down on a few inches of water over a rocky bottom. Moreover, the lagoon is a bit too open. If von Stalhein is there I’d rather he didn’t know we were about. Apart from the island being a nice wild spot for a murder, by watching him we may learn something. That cuts two ways. If he spots us, he may learn something. But all this is supposing that he’s there. We may be barking up the wrong tree. Let’s wait and see. Meanwhile, let’s fix ourselves up in marching order.’
The rest of the afternoon was so employed.
The first streak of daylight the following morning saw the Otter again outward boun
d for the Bahamas, and soon after eight o’clock their objective, Inagua, crept up over the horizon. As the island is some fifty miles long there was no chance of missing it.
In eager anticipation Ginger watched for the lagoons to appear, for upon the shape of one of them depended the confirmation of his theory. Not until they were directly overhead could the outlines be checked accurately.
A glance was enough to reveal that the big lagoon bore not the slightest resemblance to what they sought. It merely appeared to be larger. But as Ginger’s eyes wandered on over the smaller newly-formed sheets of water a cry of triumph left his lips. ‘There it is!’ exclaimed. ‘Look! The very end one of all, the one nearest the sea.’
For a moment Biggles did not answer. Watching steadfastly he altered course a trifle. ‘I think you’re right,’ he agreed. ‘At least, if it isn’t it, it’s mighty like it.’ He flew on. ‘I’m not going too close in case we’re being watched,’ he continued. ‘Besides, I don’t want to get in another scramble with the flamingos and maybe do some damage. You’ll notice that the colony extends nearly to the piece of water we’re looking at, which means that if Hagen went there he wouldn’t have far go to get an egg.’
‘I can see something else,’ asserted Ginger excitement raising his voice a tone. ‘At the extreme end, just where the mark appears on the sketch, there’s a sort of lump. I can’t see what it is from this height, though.’
‘Nor I,’ answered Biggles, after a pause, ‘but there’s certainly something there.’ He smiled. ‘I really believe we’re getting warm at last. I can’t see anyone moving. Obviously there’s nobody near the birds or they’d be on the wing.’
‘I can’t see anything of the Vega,’ said Ginger, his eyes following the coast.
