by W E Johns
Ginger was staring in surprise at the fence that surrounded the buildings, for it was a far more formidable affair than he had supposed in the air. It was of steel mesh wire, a good fifteen feet high, the lower part being doubly protected by fine wire netting. It gave the place the appearance of a prison camp.
“What’s the idea of the fence?” he asked the steward casually. “Is it to keep us in?”
The steward smiled tolerantly. “No, sir. That’s to keep the wild animals out. In the early days we had trouble with leopards getting in after the dogs. The wire netting is snake fence. There are quite a few of them about, and they’re better outside than in.”
Ginger concurred, warmly. The explanation was perfectly reasonable, as he was bound to admit; nevertheless as most big game hunters are content to sleep on camp beds under canvas, or even in the open, he could not help feeling that this precaution was overdone. His opinion was confirmed by the elderly man in tweeds, who had overheard the conversation.
“Lot o’ nonsense,” he muttered petulantly. “What do they think we are—schoolgirls? By the way, my name’s Dupray—Colonel Dupray. It’s my first trip here.”
Ginger and Bertie introduced themselves. By this time they were out of the machine, standing in short parched grass.
One of the men who had been waiting on the verandah came forward.
“This is Mr. Kreeze,” announced the steward. “He’s the manager here.”
Robinson, Ginger noted, as soon as he alighted, strode straight on to the bungalow without speaking to anyone. It was obvious that he knew his way about.
Ginger disliked Mr. Kreeze on sight. He was the last type of man he expected to find in such a place. There was nothing of the hale and hearty sportsman about him. On the contrary, he was a dark, rather pompous little man, immaculately dressed in town clothes. He might have been the manager of a big West End hotel. What his nationality was Ginger did not attempt to guess.
“Welcome to Kudinga, gentlemen,” he greeted, smoothly, in perfect English, but with a queer foreign accent. “We shall do our best to make you comfortable and ensure that you have good sport. Will you please come through to my office as there are one or two things I must explain to you.”
Like sheep following a shepherd, Ginger, Bertie and Colonel Dupray, followed the manager to a small door, labelled “Private,” near the end of the bungalow. Where the other two passengers went Ginger did not see. He presumed that they were employees, not hunters.
In his office Mr. Kreeze made a short, carefully-worded speech, which he had obviously made many times before. The gist of it was this. He hoped they would be comfortable during their stay. He wanted them to make themselves at home, and at the same time help the administration by adhering strictly to rules which they would find in the visitors’ book in the lounge. They were requested to sign this book as evidence that the rules had been read. He hoped they would not find these rules irksome, but they were necesssary. He pointed out that the guests were now the responsibility of the company. Every precaution for their well-being had been taken, but accidents could happen, as was proved by the lamentable case of Brigadier-General Carding, who, against rules, went out without a professional hunter and was mauled to death by a lion. They would see his grave outside. It would be noticed, went on Mr. Kreeze, that the power-plant, down the hill, was out of bounds. The reason was, the bamboo swamp in which it was situated was infested with snakes. That was all. He was at their service should they require any further information.
For the moment Ginger and Bertie were content to retire to their quarters, for they were really tired, having lost a night’s sleep during the journey out from England. A steward showed them to their rooms, which were adjoining, and there left them.
“Well, what do you make of it?” asked Bertie, who had followed Ginger into his room.
“It’s a bit early to form an opinion,” answered Ginger. “The outfit is phoney, of course. Robinson’s presence here is proof of that. I haven’t had a chance to discuss it with you but no doubt you spotted him in the plane? We shall have to let Biggles know about that right away. After that our job is to get the lowdown on the place. It shouldn’t take long.”
Ginger produced his keys and reached for the suitcase containing a small but powerful radio transmitter.
The moment he felt the weight of the case his expresssion changed. He stared at Bertie with wide open eyes. Then, swiftly, he unlocked the case and threw back the lid. The suitcase was empty.
There was silence in the room for a full ten seconds.
Ginger looked at the outside of the case, trying to believe that the luggage had got mixed and the case was not his own, although in his heart he knew that this was not so. He looked again at Bertie.
Bertie polished his eyeglass vigorously. “Bad show,” he observed.
“It’s worse than that,” muttered Ginger through his teeth. “We’ve been stung. The instrument must have been pinched in Cairo, when our stuff was being weighed. I thought that smirking clerk was in a hurry to get his hands on our cases.”
“If they found radio in our kit then we must already be under suspicion—if you see what I mean?” said Bertie.
“Yes, I see what you mean,” returned Ginger bitterly. “We’ve got to put this right. Kreeze must know about the set being taken. He’ll also know that we shall soon discover the theft. There’s only one thing we can do and that’s go straight to him. In any case, I’m not standing for being robbed in broad daylight,” Ginger was getting angry.
“Absolutely,” agreed Bertie. “Absolutely.”
“You realize what this means? We’re out of touch with Biggles. I can’t think of any way we could make contact with him.”
“We could write a letter. No doubt the aircraft carries mails when it goes back.”
“Yes,” agreed Ginger with bitter sarcasm. “And no doubt Kreeze reads every letter that’s handed in. I’m going along to see what he has to say about this. It will look more suspicious if we let the thing pass without comment.”
“Okay, old boy. Let’s toddle along and bite his ear.”
They strode back to the manager’s office. Kreeze looked concerned as Ginger lodged his complaint in no uncertain terms.
“Extraordinary,” murmured the manager vaguely. “ I can’t imagine what could have happened.”
“There’s nothing extraordinary about it,” declared Ginger grimly. “The instrument was in my case when I handed it over for weighing at your Cairo office. It isn’t there now. In other words, Mr. Kreeze, my case page was opened on your premises in my absence and without my permission.”
“I’ll go into the matter,” promised Kreeze. “If I find that the loss was caused by any carelessness on our part you will receive compensation in full.” The manager paused for a moment and then went on, his dark eyes on Ginger’s face.
“Purely as a matter of curiosity, may I ask why you burdened yourself with such a heavy piece of luggage on an expedition of this sort?”
Ginger knew this question would come, and had his answer ready. “Evidently you don’t know the new regulations with regard to officers on leave outside India and the United Kingdom? We have always to be in touch with our headquarters, by radio if there is no telegraph service, in case it becomes necessary to send a recall signal. We live in troubled times, when anything can happen any day.”
“If that’s all, you won’t need to worry,” said Kreeze smoothly. “We have our own radio here, with an operator always on duty. Should you wish to send any messages you have only to say so. Should a recall signal come through for you I will let you know at once, no matter what part of the territory you may happen to be on. I take it your unit knows where you are?”
“Of course,” answered Ginger without enthusiasm. “Thanks for your offer.” There was nothing else he could say, but he had a feeling that he had been neatly frustrated. Without laying himself open to suspicion—if indeed suspicion was not already aroused—there was nothing more he c
ould do.
With Bertie he returned to their quarters, to bathe, rest, and to await the next development. He had a feeling that it would not be long coming.
Chapter 6
Reconnaissance
By the time the day was losing its heat Ginger and Bertie had settled in. They had read the rules and had made themselves acquainted with the layout of the lodge. As far as the rules were concerned there was nothing against which objection could be taken. Actually, at their face value they had been framed more for the benefit of the guests than for the company.
As they had already been warned, the power-house was out of bounds—not that there was any reason why a guest should want to go near the place. Guests were not to go out alone, but only in charge of a professional hunter provided by the company. There were several sound reasons for such a rule. The professional hunters knew the best areas for game; they knew the boundaries of the different beats, with the result that they were able to ensure that guests did not spoil each others’ sport, or by accident shoot each other. It also reduced the risk of one hunter being mauled by a beast wounded by another. Beats were changed daily. Guests were requested to be home by sundown, and must at all times abide by the decisions of their hunters. Guests were not allowed in the native compound, and were forbidden to make private arrangements with the pilots of the company’s aircraft for any purpose whatsoever. Arrangements for the transport of letters, parcels, and the like, could be made, but all mails and freight must pass through the company’s private post office.
All this, as Bertie averred, was fair enough.
In the matter of the lodge the advertisements had not lied. The place, comparatively speaking, was a luxury hotel. The general shape was three sides of a square, the front portion being a lounge and dining-room, and the sides, the sleeping accommodation. The lounge, in which the air was kept moving by electric fans, was the last word in comfort. The walls were decorated by trophies of the chase. It was served by native waiters who could provide almost anything in the nature of refreshment. The coloured staff lived in its own quarters outside the wire.
Apart from themselves, Ginger ascertained from a waiter, there were only four other guests in residence. Two were wealthy Americans who had come together. Their time was up, but they had had good sport and were staying on for a day or two. Of the remaining two one was a Frenchman, an official of the French Diplomatic Corps, a man well known in society and a celebrated big game shot. He was leaving on the morrrow at the expiration of his tour, in the Pacemaker that had brought them down. The fourth guest was what is usually called in hotels, a permanency. He was a frail, eccentric, grey-bearded old man thought to be a Czech, named Doctor Dorov. He was assumed to be well off, for he had been at the lodge for nearly a year. Wearing dark sun glasses he shuffled about in a pair of old slippers, shabby, puffing at an enormous meerschaum pipe, intent on his one pursuit, which was ornithology. He had a private sitting-room in which he often worked, and where he kept his ever-growing collection of African birds. He attended to the preservation of the skins himself, wrote copious notes about them, and sometimes sent specimens home. More than once, as he looked at him, Ginger had a feeling that he had seen the old man before somewhere; there was something in the shape of his head that reminded him of somebody, but he could not call the circumstances to mind.
The Frenchman had that day shot a magnificent buffalo; the head had been brought in by porters and was now in the taxidermist’s workshop being prepared for transport home. They went with him to see it. The building stood some distance from the rest, and as he drew near Ginger understood why. The place had an unpleasant smell, although this of course was only to be expected. The big room was a veritable museum. Two men were at work. One of them told Ginger, in reply to a question about these trophies, that Kudinga served as a supply base for several famous natural history museums. In other words, specimens shot by the company’s professional hunters could be bought. There was an implication, which made Bertie frown, that if they were unlucky at their sport there would be no need for them to advertise their lack of success by going home empty-handed. The company could provide trophies.
“I wouldn’t mind that one,” confessed Ginger, pointing to a well-preserved elephant’s foot. Taken off just above the knee and mounted with silver it had been made up into a receptacle.
“It might be arranged,” said the head taxidermist. “We will speak about it again later, just before you go. By that time you may have shot an elephant yourself.”
Actually, neither Bertie nor Ginger were particularly interested in this branch of the organization, but living up to the roles they were playing they remained for a little while longer, talking. They learned that should their hunting be successful their trophies would be sent home free of charge. It was part of the service.
Naturally, in the short time at its disposal, the taxidermist’s department at Kudinga could only make a temporary job. Finishing touches and final setting-up would be done at the company’s natural history department in London, Paris, or New York, as the case might demand. When they were finally completed, trophies were sent on to any address the client wished.
“We must admit that the company has got its show well organized,” asserted Ginger as they strolled away. “Naturally people want to take their trophies home with them, but they’ve made such a big thing of this taxidermists’ department that I’m beginning to wonder if there isn’t more behind it than meets the eye.”
Presently he stopped and gazed down the inside slope of the crater towards the bamboo swamp in which the power-plant was situated. Clearly through the soft African sunset came the beat and throb of engines. “I wonder why they put that power-plant down there?” he murmured.
“They’d have to have it well away from the bungalow or the noise of the engines would annoy people,” offered Bertie.
Ginger nodded. “Maybe. The water would be down there, too, not on top of the hill. It’s the fact that the place is out of bounds that interests me. If there is anything funny going on here I’d say it was in that alleged snake-infested bamboo swamp. The word snake would be enough to keep most people away. I wonder if that story of snakes is true? It might be a bluff. Sooner or later we shall have to give that place the once-over. It’s going to be a ticklish job. I imagine it will have to be done at night—we should be seen in daylight.”
“Here, I say, old boy, you’re not going to ask me to toddle about amongst puff-adders by moonlight, I hope?”
“We’ll wrestle with the problem later,” decided Ginger. “What worries me most at the moment is how we are to get this information through to Biggles.”
With the daylight now fading fast they strolled on a little way down the slope, towards the bottom extremity of the fence. Here they saw another gate, a small one. A padlock was conspicuous.
“That’s obviously a short cut to the power-house,” observed Ginger. “I imagine Kreeze keeps the key of that gate. It’s no use going any farther. You realize that when the main gate is closed at sundown we are prisoners. I wouldn’t care to try to climb over that confounded fence.”
“That’s the idea of the bally thing, of course,” said Bertie.
“No doubt of it,” agreed Ginger. “I wish to goodness Biggles was here. I hate being out of touch with him. I’m trying to work the thing out as he would.”
“That’s all we can do,” agreed Bertie moodily.
“I can imagine how interested Biggles would be in that fence,” went on Ginger. “It must have cost a lot of money. People don’t spend that amount of money without good reason. Apart from the power-house I reckon the fence is the most suspicious thing here. It’s the nearest thing I’ve seen to a Nazi concentration camp. The reasons that Kreeze gave for it are sheer eyewash. Who ever heard of a hunter putting himself inside a pen for fear of the beasts he’s hunting? Natives often pile up a thorn fence—but then they sleep rough... in the open. Which reminds me; I wonder how many blacks they employ at this place? Let’s walk ov
er to the fence nearest to them and have a look.”
“Do they matter?” questioned Bertie.
“They matter this much,” answered Ginger. “They’re all servants of the company and would do what Kreeze told them. They probably know every inch of the country, which means that we should have a poor chance of getting away on foot should we ever be compelled to attempt it. Don’t forget that in the matter of transport we are now completely in Kreeze’s hands. He could keep us here indefinitely if he wanted to. The tour lasts a month. Biggles is going to get impatient long before that if he doesn’t hear from us. Just a mmute—what goes on here?”
This last remark was prompted by something that was happening a short distance away, although it was on the other side of the fence. Two natives were having an argument about something and in their anger their voices were raised.
Both were well-built men dressed native fashion. One wore a leopard skin kaross. Ginger naturally supposed that they would be talking in their native tongue, and his astonishment was great therefore, when he heard that not only were they talking English, but talking it with a strong, slangy, American accent.
“Sure I did! So what? You cheap double-crosser,” snarled one.
“Okay—okay,” returned the other. “We’ll see what the boss has to say about it, smart guy.”
The effect of this conversation was to cause Ginger to stop abruptly. It was clear that the men had not noticed them so catching Bertie by the arm he retired quickly behind some convenient bushes.
