by W E Johns
Very slowly Morgan got to his feet, facing the way Ginger had come; and there for a few seconds he stood breathing heavily.
‘This gun is still pointing at your back,’ warned Ginger, who was behind him. ‘One step towards that razor and you’ll get what, if I had any sense, I ought to give you anyway.’ The man walked slowly down the track. After going a little way he looked over his shoulder, and the expression on his face made Ginger feel cold inside, in spite of the heat.
Morgan walked on.
Ginger saw him out of sight, but still he stood for some minutes, watching and listening. He picked up the razor, closed it, and threw it into the bushes. Then, still watching the track, pistol in hand, he sat down, feeling suddenly weak. His hands, he discovered, were trembling, either from anger, or shock, or both. He was not surprised. It had been a nasty business. Actually, he soliloquized, the negro was lucky still to be alive, for prompted solely by the instinct of self-preservation he had blazed at his assailant without even attempting to take aim. There had been no time for that.
Still somewhat dazed by the speed of it all, he took a drink of water and splashed a little on his face, after which he felt better and able to think more clearly.
The first thought that struck him was, so von Stalhein and his associates were on the island after all. Morgan would hardly be there alone. His presence at that particular spot could not be accidental. Where was von Stalhein? In front of him or behind? This led to another thought, one that disturbed him not a little. If Morgan was making his way to Man-o’-War Bay, or the mangroves beyond – supposing the Vega to be there – then he would almost certainly see the Otter… perhaps collide with Algy and Bertie. What would happen then?
At first he felt that he ought to go back, to shadow the negro until he was able to warn the others that the man was on the island. But to do that would be to risk running into an ambush himself; although this risk would arise in any case when he turned for home. Apart from that, it seemed a pity to abandon his project after all his labour, at the last moment. In the end he decided, he was now so close to the lagoon, little was to be gained by turning for home immediately. He would press on as quickly as possible, so that whatever happened he would not have to report the failure of his mission. Looking at his watch he saw with consternation that he had been on the go for four hours. Already Biggles would be watching for his return, and he had not yet reached his objective. He prayed fervently that Biggles would give him an hour or two’s grace before sending someone to look for him, as he had practically said that he would; for Morgan on the prowl was a more deadly menace than any wild beast.
CHAPTER 8
SUCCESS OR FAILURE
Picking himself up Ginger set off again as fast as was compatible with caution, for he did not lose sight of the possibility of von Stalhein being somewhere in front of him. This was another uncomfortable thought, and one that finally banished the last shreds of his early optimism. A feeling was growing on him that their calculations were at fault; that a hard-headed Nazi like Hagen would never have chosen such an unpleasant place as this for his cache. Of course, he took into account that if he had, he would not follow the route which he, Ginger had taken. He would come in straight from the sea, only a short distance. Yet, if Hagen had not come to the island, what was Morgan doing there? For it seemed to follow that if Morgan was there, his associate, Boris Zorotov, who had acted as stooge for von Stalhein, would not be far away – to say nothing of von Stalhein himself. It was all very puzzling.
Another twenty minutes of miserable travelling and the lagoon that was his destination came into view – a broad sheet of water, pale green in colour, lying still and silent in the blazing sunshine. Around the perimeter the ground was greyish-white with saline deposits. Some small flat banks of sand suggested that the water, always shallow, was now receding by the process of evaporation. This, when he reached it, he was able to confirm. Nowhere that he could see was it more than a couple of feet deep. Often it was only a matter of inches, with a rocky bottom, and he perceived how wise Biggles had been not to risk landing the aircraft on it.
Beyond the small lagoon, and separated from it only by a narrow isthmus, was its immense parent, stretching away to distant horizons. Some distance to the left was the scarlet crescent that he had seen from air – the flamingo colony. It comprised many hundreds of birds, a wonderful sight. A few, as if they might have been sentinels, stood still or moved slowly up and down on the outskirts of the main body. Some had obviously seen him, and were watching him suspiciously.
From the fiery multitude came an incessant clamour, like the gabbling of a distant flock of geese. There were other birds too, all around; pelicans, gulls, terns, herons and sandpipers. Nothing else moved. There were only the birds. Away beyond the flamingo colony, through a dip in the sand dunes, he could see the sparking-blue of the open sea, broken inshore by misty spray where waves waged eternal war on the reefs.
At first Ginger could see no sign of the object, the bump, that had brought him to the lagoon; but after walking some distance he came upon it, a hundred yards or so from the water’s edge and half hidden by a mass of salt-encrusted cacti. At least, in the absence of anything else, he could only assume that this was the object marked on Hagen’s drawing. Walking nearer he made it out to be a small coral and thatch hut, a tiny edition of the houses he had seen at Man-o’-War Bay. It was in the last stages of dilapidation. He approached warily until he was satisfied that there was no one in it.
Going right up he regarded it with mixed feelings. It seemed so little after his labour, merely four walls, a door, a window and a wind-torn roof of palm fronds. The floor was bare earth. In a corner, looking as might have been a bed, lay a flat heap of palmetto leaves. The only occupant was a huge black and yellow spider that retired to its hole on his approach. He leaned against the doorpost while his eyes made a thoughtful reconnaissance of the place.
Who had built it, and for what purpose, he could not imagine. But someone, at some time, had evidently gone to the trouble of carrying the building materials from a distance, for they were not available near at hand. Certainly it was not Hagen. It must have been there long before his time. Indeed, it was hard to understand how Hagen had found the hut; yet it seemed that he must have known of its existence or he would not have marked it on his sketch. True, it was no great distance from the sea and Hagen might have been searching for a hiding-place; yet so improbable did it seem that he could have been there that the fear grew again on Ginger that they were off the track altogether. The resemblance of the lagoon to the line on the sketch, and the hut, were just a coincidence. Yet against that there was the presence of Morgan to explain. He had been there – or somewhere close.
Ginger went outside and surveyed the desolate landscape, looking in a vague sort of way for anything to help him to find an explanation. In an area of soft sand he found footprints, large flat marks obviously made by human feet; but beyond the fact that they were there they told him nothing. He returned to the hut, and in making a close scrutiny he was more successful. Blown into a corner, as if it might have been by the wind, was a tiny screwed up wisp of paper in such new condition that it could not have been there for very long. Unfolding it with care, he read some printed words that put a different complexion on everything. The slip was the wrapping of a photographic film, giving instructions for use. So someone had loaded a camera there. Who else could it have been but Hagen, who was known to have taken photos of the flamingos? Ginger drew a deep breath. This, he told himself, was something. Now he was getting somewhere.
He explored the hut with reawakened interest. Not that there was much room for exploration. Really, he could see all there was to see at a single glance. He looked at the supposed bed of withered fronds on the floor. Walking over to it, and lifting it in a mass to see if there was anything underneath, his pulses quickened when he observed that the earth was rough and soft, as if had been turned over, whereas the rest of the floor was hard-packed. In a moment
he was on his knees, delving with his fingers, and while this confirmed his belief that the ground had been disturbed he was unable to make much progress, for the earth was well mixed with shells and pieces of flinty coral that threatened to cut his hands if he persisted. Quickly he looked around for something to use as a tool, but there was nothing. The blade of his penknife was too small to make any impression: He tried the spine of a palm-front, but it was brittle with age and crumbled at the pressure. Cacti, the only plants that grew anywhere near were useless It was maddening to be so hot on the trail, as he was now sure he was, yet not be able to follow it up. Controlling his irritation, and: contemplating the soil, he realized that anything buried there might be some way down, in which case, even with a tool, the task of unearthing it would take some time.
Hagen, if this was in fact his cache, must have had a tool. Where was it? He spent some time searching, but to no purpose. Hot and somewhat bothered he looked at his watch, and saw to his alarm and chagrin that he had been away more than five hours. Biggles would soon be taking action to find out what had become of him, if indeed, he had not already done so. Obviously, it was time he started for home. There was little more he could do at the hut, anyway.
He was getting to his feet when a roar of sound, unlike anything he had ever heard, sent him striding to the door. He saw at once what had caused it. The entire flock of flamingos was in the air, every bird screaming, a thousand wings beating. For a few seconds, as the almost solid band of colour wheeled across the sky, he could only stare at it, thinking that it was a spectacle that would have to be seen to be believed. But then came other thoughts. What had caused the birds to behave in such a manner? Clearly, something or somebody had disturbed them, sent them from their nesting ground in screaming protest.
At first, seeing nothing, he thought it might be the weather for while he had been in the hut there had certainly been a change; one that filled him with misgivings but not actual alarm. A film of mist now half obscured the sun, and the surface of the lagoon, instead of being tranquil, was now astir with little waves kept in motion by gusts of wind which were at least refreshing after the torrid heat.
Ginger’s eyes dropped from the band of fire still weaving about the sky to the tongue of land from whence it had sprung, and then he saw what had caused the tumult. A figure was moving quickly along the sand towards the nesting-ground, marked by the irregular outline of the turrets on which the eggs were laid. He stared hard, but could do no more than make it out to be a human being, a stout person it seemed to be, wearing an enormous hat. The increasing mistiness in the atmosphere blurred the figure. Indeed, it distorted the whole landscape so that it was impossible to see anything clearly.
This new and unexpected development threw him into a quandary. He wanted to stay and watch, yet he was anxious to get back as quickly as possible to set Biggles’s mind at rest and tell him of his discoveries. Deciding that a minute or two would not make much difference now that he was already so far behind time, he stood still, watching closely, from the cover of the doorway. Even at this distance salt spray from the lagoon was soon being blown into his face, and for the first time the weather gave him a pang of apprehension. Something was happening to it. A wide, dark cloud was racing up from the south. He did not like the look of it at all. He told himself it was time to make a move, particularly in view of the sort of country he had to cross; but still he tarried, his eyes on the distant figure. What was it doing? It seemed to be bending, straightening, bending and straightening, and from time to time doing something with the big hat.
Suddenly he got it, and he could have kicked himself for not guessing the answer to the riddle at once, so obvious was it. Someone was stealing the flamingo eggs. Who it could be he did not attempt to guess, but someone was definitely breaking the bird protection laws. Not that that aspect worried him overmuch. He had more important matters on his mind.
The figure was now moving even more quickly. It no longer stooped. On it went until, reaching a belt of cacti it disappeared from view. But not for long. It reappeared from the side of the cacti nearer to him, hurrying and now leading a donkey. He made it out be a woman, a fat woman, either in a short skirt or a longer one drawn up to her knees. What he had taken for a hat now turned out to be a basket. A short walk in the direction of the sea took her from his sight, this time for good.
Puzzled, but not for a moment supposing that the female had any bearing on his own affairs, he turned away, determined now to move off. It was, he observed with a frown, high time, for the wind was now blowing with some violence, and as he hastened on his way a storm of rain burst upon him.
At first he took little notice of this. He had been wet often enough before. It was not until the downpour blotted out everything beyond a few yards that he became seriously concerned. To make matters worse, the pall of indigo cloud that was unloading its contents on him was almost overhead. The sun had of course been obliterated, with the result that an uncanny twilight dimmed the scene. The only sounds were the howling of the wind and the hiss of the rain. At least, so for a little while he thought. Then, with a shock, he saw that the ground all about him was on the move with the shadowy forms of the land crabs, hundreds of them, thousands of them, taking advantage of the deluge to make their way to the sea. As they moved their shells kept up an incessant rattle. They took not the slightest notice of him, but proceeded with their migration regardless of obstacles. So many were there that it was difficult to walk without treading on them.
Ginger stopped, wavering, assailed by fresh doubts and misgivings. The wind screamed. The rain hissed. The crabs rattled. He knew that to go on would be asking for trouble. Should he lose his way, as plainly he might, anything could happen. If it had taken him more than four hours to reach the lagoon in clear weather, how much longer would it take him to get back to base in such conditions as these? He was desperately anxious to get home, but it now seemed the height of folly to attempt it. He remembered the thorns and the hostile cacti. They would tear him to pieces. He remembered the cliff of petrified coral. If he stumbled over that it would be serious, to say the least of it. And there was the plain, with the mud holes which would now be full of water. He might blunder about in them until he dropped from sheer exhaustion. And, to cap all, there was only one place over the whole distance where any sort of protection from the weather was available — the banyan tree. It would be pitch dark by the time he could reach that area, so he would probably fail to find it anyway.
Close behind him was the hut. It would at least offer shelter until the storm had passed. Reluctantly, he turned back towards it. It seemed the common-sense thing to do. Bitterly, he regretted that he had not started earlier, but regrets, seldom any use, were of no avail now. The weather had turned against him. That was all there was to it. He tried to console himself with the thought that he was not the first man to be so benighted.
CHAPTER 9
THE MANGROVES
Algy and Bertie, bound for the mangrove swamp, in the matter of travail and discomfort fared no better than Ginger in the opposite direction. The first part of their journey lay through similar depressing scenery. The same unpleasant obstacles were encountered, and progress was slow and often painful. But after a while they struck some sandhills that fringed the coast and things were better, although it was still heavy going through the hot, soft sand.
Ahead now, stark against the blue of sea and sky, was the sombre, almost black, area of mangroves. As they closed the distance, progress was again necessarily slow, for they were now faced with the possibility of having watchful enemies to contend with.
However, taking advantage of every scrap of cover that offered they reached the edge of the mangroves without incident, and there they paused for a minute to rest in the shade of the massive trees. Algy, looking at his watch, suffered the same anxieties as Ginger in the matter of the time schedule. He conveyed to Bertie the disturbing information that they had been on the move for three hours. It was obvious that they w
ere going to be late getting back. This did not really matter, for was no particular reason for haste except that Biggles, not knowing the difficulties of travel, would wonder what had held them up. They realized, of course, Ginger was also likely to be late back for the same reason as themselves.
As they were about to move on, Bertie had a mild fright when a miniature lance, about a foot long, buried itself in the mud at his feet. His pistol was out in a moment, and he moved quickly to the nearest tree trunk, from the cover of which he sought his supposed attacker. ‘Some blighter is shooting at us,’ he asserted indignantly.
Algy grinned and told him to put his gun away. As they went on he explained.1 A mangrove swamp is never a pleasant place at any time. The one with which Algy and Bertie were concerned turned out to be a good deal bigger than aerial reconnaissance had indicated, and so for some they slushed about in the mud, or scrambled about on octopus-like roots, without seeing anything more exciting than enormous purple crabs, lizards, and other dwellers of the slime. In such conditions it was difficult to maintain direction, and they were both getting thoroughly sick of the place when they came upon some harder ground through which ran a track of sorts. It was wet and slippery, and revealed, among other things, the imprints of shoe-shod feet.
Following this comparatively easy route, it soon brought them to what was clearly the purpose of it – a long arm of black, open water, running back into the timber. And there, moored to a tangle of roots on the far side, was the Vega. The branches of the trees spread well over it, making it plain why they had not spotted the vessel from the air. Between one of the branches and the mast a wireless aerial had been suspended. Algy paid little attention to this at the time. He did no more than notice it. But he was to remember it later on.
Sitting together on deck, smoking and talking, were three white men. One was von Stalhein. The others they did not know, never having seen them before, although from a description that Ginger had given them, Algy took one of them to be von Stalhein’s stooge; Zorotov. The other, evidently a sailor, wore a suit of white ducks with a peaked cap. A negro, wearing only a pair of khaki shorts, leaned over the stern doing nothing in particular. Just below him, a dinghy floated on the inky water.
