by W E Johns
‘I’ve had time to think about things. Besides, I’m fed up with Batoun and his methods. I told him what would happen if he had things his way.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, bringing that witch-doctor along with us, for a start.’
‘Why bring such a creature?’
‘We had a job to get porters for the trip. Batoun got N’Bulu to fix it and he came along with the men. Batoun claimed it was a good thing. N’Bulu more or less ran the village where we picked up the men. They’d have to do as he told ‘em. They wouldn’t dare do otherwise.’
‘Who’s the boss of your party, you or this half-breed you call Batoun?’
‘I thought I was when we started but since then he’s taken over.’
‘Why let him get away with that?’
‘Because through the witch-doctor he has control of the men. They’ll do nothing for me. If I’d kicked they’d have walked out on me. I only realized that when it was too late to go back. Not till I got here did I know I was travelling with a bunch of leopard-men.’
‘If you felt like this why did you behave as you did when I called on you in your camp?’
‘To keep right with Batoun. He has one hell of a temper.’
‘From which I gather you’re scared of him.’
‘I couldn’t afford to be stuck here on my own without stores or anything. Besides, Batoun was working himself into a rage at not finding what we came for. He might have turned his leopard-men on me when I was asleep. He’s bad enough for anything.’
‘You have changed your tune,’ said Biggles, with bitter sarcasm.
‘This is the first chance I’ve had to see you alone.’
‘Anyhow, you’re not denying that this dead man was one of your outfit?’
‘No, I wouldn’t deny that. He’s one of ours. But I didn’t send him here. The first I knew he was here was when I walked in and saw him lying there.’
‘I’m glad you admit to something,’ returned Biggles, with iron in his voice. ‘You can see for yourself what happened. This man of yours came into the village to kill somebody. He nearly succeeded. There happened to be a guard here so it was he who was killed.’
‘I’m sorry about it.’
‘You’re sorry!’ Biggles was incredulous. ‘Why should you be sorry. You’ve been the cause of all the trouble here.’
‘I didn’t come to make trouble, but things didn’t work out as we expected.’
‘If you’re on the level what’s your name?’
‘Ducard. Otto Ducard. You may have heard of me.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘I’ve spent my life in Africa.’
‘What did you come here for, anyway?’
‘Diamonds. You see, I’m coming straight.’
‘I gather you didn’t find any.’
‘You’re right. It never did look like diamond country to me.’
‘What led you to think there might be diamonds here?’
‘A man I met in Nigeria. He said there was a fortune to be picked up. Millions.’
‘Why should he tell you that? Why didn’t he come himself and pick up this easy fortune?’ Biggles was frankly sceptical.
‘He was near dead with blackwater fever when I came on him. Past saying much. I did what I could for him but it was no use. Just before he died he told me about this place.’
‘He’d been here?’
‘So he said.’
‘The Zinns said a man had been here, months ago,’ put in Ginger.
Biggles resumed. ‘Had this man any diamonds on him?’
‘I didn’t find any in his pack.’
‘Did he actually mention diamonds?’
‘Not in so many words. He didn’t have much time to say anything. But I’d known him as a diamond prospector, with a bit of smuggling thrown in, mebbe, for years. When he talked of a fortune to be picked up what else was I to think? He was crazy about diamonds. I knew that.’
‘Well, it’s a good story,’ said Biggles, obviously only half convinced. ‘Not that it matters much now, if you’re pulling out.’
‘I’ve wasted enough time here.’
‘And you’ll take your thugs with you?’
‘Of course.’
And you won’t be coming back?’
‘Not me. I’ve had enough.’ The man was emphatic.
‘How long will it take you to get packed up?’
‘Coupla days, at most. We’ve been here some time and we’ve a fair amount of stuff. We had some way to come, too.’
Biggles nodded. ‘I see. All right. You’d better start packing. I shall stay here till you’ve gone. What if your partner refuses to go?’
‘He’ll go if I put my foot down.’
‘I’ll wait and see if he goes.’
‘Do what you like. I’ve finished.’ Ducard turned about and started to walk away, but Biggles called him back.
‘Just a minute. Haven’t you forgotten something?’
‘Forgot what?’
Biggles pointed at the body of the native. ‘This is your property. You’d better take it with you.’
‘You don’t expect me to hump him on my back, do you?’
‘We don’t want him. You can send some of your porters to fetch him.’
Ducard looked at Biggles grimly. ‘Listen, mister. I’ll do that if you want it that way, but if I was you I’d leave well alone. If N’Bula and his men learn you’ve killed one of ‘em you’re likely to be in for bad trouble. They’re a strong tribe. They’ll hang about and never leave you till they get you. Take my tip, bury him yourself and keep your mouth shut about it. I shan’t say nothing if you don’t.’
Biggles pondered the matter for a moment. ‘All right. Maybe it’d be better that way. I’m not looking for trouble.’
‘You’re wise.’ The man turned again and walked away.
‘We’ll get the Zinns to dispose of the body,’ decided Biggles.
As Ducard faded into the now-thinning mist Ginger said: ‘What do you make of all that?’
Biggles lit a cigarette and drew on it heavily before he answered. ‘I think he was telling the truth—or the greater part of it was true.’
‘Why should he tell the truth?’
‘Why shouldn’t he? I don’t see that he’s anything to gain now by lying. He says he’s going.’
‘How do we know he means that?’
‘I can believe he’s decided there’s no point in staying. He knows we’re here and that we intend to stay. He also knows we have an aircraft so he wouldn’t be able to do a thing without our spotting it. Again, he hasn’t found what he came for, and he’s been a long time looking. He hasn’t many bearers so he couldn’t have brought much in the way of stores. They’re probably running low. Taking it by and large he has every reason to be fed up with the whole thing. Unless he’s a smarter liar than I give him credit for, he meant what he said about pulling out.’
‘But what about this ugly business last night, old boy?’ protested Bertie.
‘He said he, personally, knew nothing about it, and from the expression on his face—unless he’s a good actor as well as a liar—that was true.’
‘I got that impression,’ put in Ginger.
‘To cap all, ask yourself this. Would he have come here this morning had he sent a murderer into the village?’
‘True enough, old boy, true enough,’ conceded Bertie.
‘No,’ concluded Biggles. ‘There was no point that I can see in saying he was going if he wasn’t, knowing perfectly well that we should know if he stayed.’
‘Why should the man who died of fever send him here on a wild goose chase to look for diamonds that weren’t here?’ Ginger asked the question.
‘I have my own ideas about that.’
‘You mean the story wasn’t true?’
‘No, I think that might well have happened. Why invent such a tale? We decided some time ago that it could only have been information that sent Ducard and his friend to an out-of-th
e-way place like this. I’d say Ducard got the story wrong. Remember, he said the man was dying and couldn’t say much. Ducard assumed it was diamonds because the man was known to him as a diamond prospector and smuggler. It wasn’t diamonds at all. It was something else.’
‘If it wasn’t diamonds or gold what else could it have been?’
‘With a little patience we may learn that. I have a vague notion in the back of my mind. But we’ll talk about that presently. Let’s get back to the bungalow. I think Charlie’s well enough to be moved.’
‘You’re not going to leave anyone here?’
‘Not for the moment. Nothing is likely to happen in daylight. One of us might come down to-night. I’ll think about it—see how things go.’
That was all. Charlie was helped into the Gadfly which Biggles then taxied back to the rest-house where Algy was brought up-to-date with events.
Algy put a finger on what Ginger thought was a weak spot in Ducard’s advice about the disposal of the leopard-man who had been shot. ‘When this fellow doesn’t go back to camp the others will know something happened to him,’ he pointed out.
‘A lot of things can happen to a man in this part of the world,’ answered Biggles. ‘I see no reason why they should jump to the conclusion that we’d shot him. He might have stepped on a snake, run into a lion, or been taken by a crocodile.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ conceded Algy. ‘Always provided Ducard keeps his mouth shut,’ he added, significantly.
‘If he’s as anxious to go as he says he is he’s not likely to do anything, or say anything, to cause his porters to hang about here indefinitely merely to get even with us. We shall have to take that on trust. We shall see. Let’s leave it at that.’
CHAPTER 12
BIGGLES COOKS SOME DIRT
The rest of the day passed quietly.
Towards noon Biggles and Ginger walked down to the village to find the Zinns busy fishing. Their method was simple. Using three dug-out canoes a long net was carried out some distance, stretched in a line with the ends curved round towards the bank, and dropped. With much splashing to scare the fish the whole thing was then dragged towards the bank and the catch brought in, the larger fish being speared in shallow water. There was a surprisingly good catch; at least, Ginger thought so. Most of the fish were small but there were some good ones, weighing up to twenty pounds, he estimated. They were ugly brutes, with scales the size of half-crowns. No sooner were they brought ashore than the Zinns began to eat them raw. As Ginger remarked, it was not a pretty picture.
‘Nature in the raw seldom is pretty,’ returned Biggles, philosophically. He was looking around.
Ginger asked him why.
‘I was looking to see where they’d buried that negro. You heard me ask Charlie to tell them to bury the body. I don’t see anything like a grave.’ Biggles made a signal to Grandpa, who was following them around like a well-trained dog probably in the hope of getting some biscuits, and pointing to the spot where the body had lain raised his eyebrows.
Grandpa made a grimace, showing that he understood the question, and pointed to the lake.
Neither Biggles nor Ginger understood what he meant until he worked his arms in a fair imitation of a crocodile’s jaws.
Biggles turned a horrified face to Ginger. ‘For heaven’s sake! They must have thrown the body in the lake... to the crocodiles.’
Ginger shrugged. ‘Maybe they’d nothing to dig a hole with.’
‘It shows what they think of leopard-men. We’d better forget it. Things seem all right here so we might as well walk back.’
They returned to the bungalow.
Towards evening Biggles said he thought someone should spend at least one more night with the Zinns, just in case there was a repetition of the attack. He offered to go himself, but Ginger volunteered for the job and after a brief argument his offer was accepted. So, starting in good time and taking the shot-gun and the binoculars, he returned to the village to find the Zinns sitting around, or going about their tasks, not having been molested. As there was a little daylight left he walked on as far as the ant-hill from which he had made his first reconnaissance. Through the glasses he could still see the tent in the same position. There seemed to be a certain amount of activity going on, which led him to think the camp might have started to pack up, but apart from that he learned nothing of interest.
Returning to the village he found himself a seat and settled down to pass a night which he did not expect to be comfortable. Nor was it, although, and this was the important thing as far as he was concerned, there was no sign of the enemy. He did a lot of thinking, as one usually does when one is awake in the long night hours.
As soon as it began to get light he walked back to the bungalow. By the time he arrived the others were already astir.
‘Nothing to report,’ he said.
‘Good. It looks as if Ducard intends to keep his word.’
‘What on earth are you doing?’ asked Ginger.
His curiosity was pardonable. Biggles was sitting on an empty petrol can. On another can in front of him was the spirit stove. Beside it lay a black object which Ginger made out to be a piece of charcoal evidently brought from the ashes of the fire in the compound. In the charcoal a small round cavity had been carved, or scraped. Close to this was a metal tube. This Ginger recognized as a length of spare petrol lead. One end had been squeezed up to form a point.
Biggles grinned. ‘You’re just in time to see an experiment that may alter the face of Africa—this part of it, anyway.’
‘I don’t get it.’
Still smiling Biggles went on. ‘You know, it’s a funny thing how you remember the things you learned at school. Another queer thing is how often they pop up to be useful. When I saw this experiment done in the lab. at school it seemed a complete waste of time. Not in my wildest imagination could I see myself doing it, so many years later—certainly not in a place like this.’
‘Would you mind telling me just what you’re doing?’ requested Ginger, curtly.
‘You recall Charlie telling us that the Zinns said a man had been here cooking earth?’
‘Perfectly well.’
‘And I said, strange as it may seem, that rang a bell somewhere far back in my memory?’
‘I remember.’
‘Last night, just as I was going off to sleep, the bell rang so loudly that it woke me up with a start. In plain English I remembered where and how I had seen a pinch of earth cooked.’
‘In the lab. at school.’
‘Right. I’m now about to do a spot of cooking.’
‘Don’t be so long-winded about it. Why?’
Biggles was obviously enjoying himself. ‘Don’t be in a hurry. I’m by no means sure I’m right. But if I am it should put us one jump ahead of the fellows at the far end of the lake. Maybe they didn’t go to school. But of this I’m pretty certain. Like the majority of prospectors, which is what they are, they can’t think far beyond gold and precious stones. In fact, Ducard is so crazy about diamonds that he thought the man who sent him here was talking of diamonds. That man, too, as Ducard told us, had diamonds on the brain. But I suspect he knew about some other things as well.’
‘He spoke of millions.’
‘If I’m not barking up the wrong tree we’re sitting on billions. Now watch the professor do his stuff.’
Biggles lit the stove. From his pocket he took a screw of paper. Unfolding it he poured into the cavity in the charcoal a little red-coloured dust. The paper he then threw away.
‘What’s that?’ asked Ginger.
‘Frankly, I don’t know,’ admitted Biggles. ‘All the ground here is full of this stuff. It could be bauxite. It might be cinnabar. Anyway, I’m pretty sure it’s a metallic oxide of some sort.’
‘What’s bauxite?’
‘Aluminium oxide, mixed perhaps with iron oxide. It’s the stuff that yields the metal. Aluminium may not be a precious metal but the world today uses an awful lot of it.
Cinnabar is ore of that stuff they put in thermometers. Mercury. The metal that runs about. When you bake the ore the sulphur in it is given off in the form of sulphur dioxide, leaving the metal. That’s what they told me at school, anyhow, and I’ve never had any reason to question it. We will now see what the luck’s like. Is anybody about?’
Ginger looked up and down. ‘Not a soul.’
‘Good. I wouldn’t like Ducard to see me doing this. It might give him ideas.’
Biggles picked up the length of tubing and using it as a blowpipe directed a point of flame at the dust in the charcoal crucible. The charcoal began to glow, the dust in it shrinking. Very soon the dust had almost entirely disappeared, leaving in its place a tiny bead of silvery metal.
Biggles stopped blowing to get his breath. A broad smile of triumph spread over his face. ‘Well, there it is,’ he said. ‘Now we know something Ducard doesn’t know, and apparently never suspected, although he’s dug enough holes in the stuff.’
‘Jolly good, old boy. You’re a wizard,’ congratulated Bertie. ‘I’d rather you had produced some gold. I could do with a few bucketfuls. What is it, do you think?’
‘I may be able to tell you when it gets cold enough to handle. At all events it’s metal of some sort, and any metal in workable quantity, even iron, is worth money. It could be beryllium, another white metal which, because it’s light, is used a lot in aircraft. I wouldn’t know about that. I’m not a metallurgist. All that matters is, there’s a metal here of some sort, thousands of tons of it, and no doubt the government will be pleased to know about it.’
Biggles picked up the little white bead and examined it closely. ‘It looks mighty like aluminium to me, but with such a small piece I wouldn’t be sure. I’ve no intention of sitting here all day blowing my inside out to get a larger piece. I’ll take this morsel home.’ He wrapped the piece in an old envelope and put it in his note-case. ‘That’s all,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘The show’s over. Sorry if it was a bit of an anticlimax but aluminium was the best I could do today. Maybe we’ll dig some gold another time.’ He turned out the lamp and stood up.
‘You don’t think the man who told Ducard about this place was exaggerating when he talked of millions?’ asked Ginger.
