Biggles Flies Again

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: THE GOLD RUSH

  CHAPTER 2: THE MAID AND THE MOUNTAINS

  CHAPTER 3: THE BLUE ORCHID

  CHAPTER 4: FAIR CARGO

  CHAPTER 5: BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

  CHAPTER 6: BOB’S BOX

  CHAPTER 7: SAVAGES AND WINGS

  CHAPTER 8: THE ORIENTAL TOUCH

  CHAPTER 9: DOWN IN THE FOREST

  CHAPTER 10: THREE WEEKS

  CHAPTER 11: THE SHEIKH AND THE GREEK

  CHAPTER 12: YELLOW FREIGHT

  CHAPTER 13: THE LAST SHOW

  CHAPTER 1

  THE GOLD RUSH

  AS THE tropic sun sunk slowly in the west, a thin miasma of mist began to curl upward from the still, silent pool around which the mangroves lifted their gnarled trunks on fantastic stilt-like roots from the slime of the swamp. At one spot, in vivid contrast to the sombre desolation around, a spray of orchids sprang like a flame from a gaunt, lowhanging branch, and mirrored their scarlet beauty in the ebony surface of the water below. Nothing moved; the scene was as lifeless as a picture. Even the air, heavy with the stench of decay and corruption, was still; it hung like a tangible substance over the place and endowed its primeval loneliness with an atmosphere of sinister foreboding.

  In the deep shade at the edge of the lagoon, its nose almost touching a rank growth of purple-blotched fungus, an aircraft floated motionless on its own inverted image. At first glance it appeared to be a flying-boat, but mud-coated wheels, now raised high into the wings near the weather-soiled hull, revealed it to be of the amphibian class.

  A gunshot split the sun-drenched silence from somewhere near at hand, and, as if in answer, a figure rose slowly from the pilot’s seat and stared in the direction from which the sound had come. Simultaneously, as if they were connected in some unseen way, several pieces of what appeared to be bark, floating on the water, sank swiftly, leaving faint ripples to mark their going.

  “I wonder what he’s got today,” said the pilot to someone inside the cabin. The voice echoed eerily over the water.

  The person to whom he had spoken emerged from the cabin and seated himself on the edge of the hull near the other.

  “I’ll tell you, Algy,” said the newcomer in a tone of voice which left no possible room for doubt; “it’ll be another warty lizard. Maybe it will have a blue belly, for a change, but that makes no difference to the flavour; yellow, red, green—they all taste alike. Smyth will come to the edge of the water, just there”—he pointed to the tiny promontory of mud beside which the machine was moored— “and he’ll say, ‘Sorry, sir, but this is the best I can do today!’”

  “Well, that’ll be better than alligator,” replied the first speaker. “I’m about sick of alligator. I never want to eat another.”

  James Bigglesworth, late R.A.F., eyed his companion grimly. “You’ve only to slip into the water here, once, and they’ll do the eating, for a change,” he observed dryly. “This place swarms with the brutes.”

  The mud-stained figure of a third man appeared, picking his way carefully to the edge of the trees. In his right hand he held a gun; in the left he carried a large lizard by the tail.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said, “but this is the best I can do today.”

  “That’s not so bad. What did you expect to get, a brace of partridges?” grinned Bigglesworth, more often known to his friends as “Biggles”. “Get a fire going; it will be time to grouse when we have to eat them raw. I’ve only one or two matches left.”

  “I’m eating no raw lizzies,” muttered Algernon Montgomery Lacey, Biggies’s war-time comrade-at-arms, with conviction. “If the boat doesn’t show up by dawn tomorrow, I’m through, and the Oil Investment Company of British Guiana can buzz off and do its own flying,” he added viciously, picking up the lizard’s tail which Smyth had skinned, and throwing it into a soot-corroded frying-pan.

  Biggles nodded. “I’m with you. She’s over a month late; there’s something wrong somewhere. We’ll go down to Georgetown tomorrow and see what it is. I’m all against leaving a job in the middle, but they can’t expect us to go on without stores or petrol. We’ve just about enough left to get to Georgetown; I’m not going to use that up here and walk back. It will evaporate if we sit still, so we might as well go down the coast. If the Agent starts a song and dance about us using the Company’s precious petrol, I’ll tell him to produce my pay-cheque and do his own aviating.”

  Actually, the pilot of the three airmen was serious. Biggles had followed up an advertisement which led to his employment by the Oil Investment Company of British Guiana as a pilot, with the task of photographing from the air likely oil-bearing terrain in the hinterland of north-east tropical America.

  The Company had allowed him to choose his own equipment and crew, with the result that he had sought out Algy Montgomery Lacey, formerly of his squadron, as second pilot, and Smyth, his late flight-sergeant-fitter, as general mechanic. And so it came about that six months later they were pursuing their task in a Vickers “Vandal” Amphibian, which they were able to land on the rivers and lagoons among the mangrove swamps near the coast.

  Their present rendezvous had been established as a base at which they were to be supplied with stores, oil, and petrol by special boat from Georgetown, and to which they were to hand their reports and the plates they had exposed.

  For six months all went well, and the boat had arrived regularly according to plan. Then came a long delay in which they had been reduced to starvation rations before the boat had belatedly put in an appearance with considerably less than the usual stock of provisions. Further, their pay-cheques had not been delivered for endorsement, as hitherto, in order that they might be paid into the bank at Georgetown, by the Company’s Agent. That was more than two months ago, and they were now reduced to the desperate expedient of living by their gun in a land where, apparently, only reptiles and insects existed. With a philosophy born of war-time experience they made the best of a bad job, daily expecting the arrival of the boat, and, although they had not discussed the reason of its failure to bring the badly-needed supplies, a shrewd suspicion was rapidly forming in Biggles’s mind.

  II

  It did not greatly surprise him therefore when, the following evening, the Agent confirmed it.

  “Yes, Bigglesworth,” he said, “the Company went into liquidation more than three months ago—and that is all there is to say,” he added, with an air of finality.

  “Is it?” said Biggles, eyeing the little pock-marked mulatto grimly. “Who told you it was? What about our pay?”

  The man made a gesture more eloquent than words.

  “I see,” said Biggles slowly; “the money dried up, eh? You knew that; you knew that we were stranded up on that hell-bound, fever-smitten coast, yet you hadn’t the decency to send word that you were not sending a boat.”

  “You would hardly expect me to stand the expense of that myself—”

  “No. Having seen you, I wouldn’t,” replied Biggles, breathing heavily. “Did you pay our last cheques into the bank?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Come on; but what?”

  “Unfortunately there was not sufficient credit at the bank to meet them. They were returned; I have them here.”

  “What about your own—was that met?”

  “Well, yes; you see, being on the spot—”

  “You were able to keep ours back until yours was cleared, eh? Well, what are you going to do about it?”

  “Do about it?”

  “Don’t pretend you’re a blooming parrot; there’s enough outside; you heard what I said. How are we going to get home?”

  “I guess that’s your own affair,” replied the Agent brusquely, turning to some papers on his desk as if the interview was closed.

  “Then you’re a darn bad guesser,” snarled Biggles, taking off his jacket.

  “What are you going to do?” cried the Agent, in alarm, turning pale under his yellow skin.

  “That’s what I asked you,” said Biggles harshly.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “As far as I can see there’s only one thing you can do,” replied Biggles through his teeth, taking a pace forward, “and that is to make over that machine in the harbour to us in lieu of pay.”

  “Preposterous! I have no authority—”

  “To blazes with authority; you’ve got a Company stamp. Get busy and date the deed the day before the Company filed its petition; your clerk can witness it. If you don’t,” went on the pilot, clenching his fists, “I’m going to give myself the satisfaction of tearing your dirty little gizzard out of your neck and throwing it outside to the dogs.”

  The Agent opened his mouth to speak, looked up at the airman’s face, changed his mind, took up a sheet of headed notepaper, and wrote rapidly.

  Five minutes later the pilot, with the deed in his pocket, made his way back to the harbour, where Algy and Smyth were busily engaged scrubbing down the amphibian.

  “Company’s gone broke; there’s no money, but we’ve got the boat,” he told them briefly.

  “What’s the use of that; are you thinking of flying it back non-stop to London?” sneered Algy sarcastically, mopping his face with an oily rag.

  Biggles shook his head. “It was that or nothing,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “We might, by giving joyrides, work our way up the coast to New Orleans or across to Jamaica, where we could sell her for enough to pay our passages back.”

  “Jungle Airways Limited, Joy Rides for Nigge
rs, Flip-Flaps for Cannibals,” grinned Algy.

  “That’s about it,” agreed Biggles. “Can you think of anything better?”

  “No, unless we can borrow that.” He nodded towards a spick-and-span white-painted steam-yacht that swung at anchor a hundred yards away.

  “Let’s talk sense,” said Biggles impatiently. “We’ve enough money for some petrol and handbills to give us a start; we’ll see about it tomorrow.”

  “Pardon me, gentlemen!”

  Biggles swung on his heel to face the speaker, and then stared at him curiously, for at first glance it would have been difficult to guess the nationality of the man who had interrupted their conversation. He spoke English like an American, but with the halting lisp peculiar to the Oriental; his face, wide and rather flat, was dominated by the eyes, which were small and dark—beady, as Algy, afterwards described them—like those of a doll, but brilliant in their intensity as they flashed from one to the other of the three airmen.

  “Yes, what can I do for you?” asked Biggles civilly.

  “You are pilots of the airplane, eh? I should like to speak with you privately,” was the quickly spoken reply.

  “Go ahead,” replied Biggles; “we’re the pilots and we’ve plenty of time.”

  “But not here,” replied the man, glancing around. “Follow me,” and, turning, he hurried away down a side street.

  “What a queer fish,” muttered Algy; “but we might as well hear what he has to say.”

  Their new acquaintance was evidently a believer in the old adage “Walls have ears”, for, contrary to their expectations, he did not stop at any of the small eating-houses, but disappeared behind a clump of tree-ferns on the outskirts of the town, where they found him awaiting them. It struck Biggles that he seemed nervous and ill at ease, for it was some moments before he could find words to begin.

  “You are Englishmen, eh?” he said at last.

  “We are,” replied Biggles. “Is that what you wanted to tell us?”

  “I think you are to be trusted,” muttered the man, ignoring the mild sarcasm. “Listen; I have a secret; you can help me.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Would you like gold—much gold?”

  “Much! More than that if you’ve got it; it makes nice compact ballast,” grinned Biggles. “Where is it?”

  “I will tell you—but not now,” was the quick answer.

  “I knew there was a catch in it,” moaned Algy.

  “No catch. I have map. Wrecked ship, a Drake ship on the Spanish Main, he said—”

  “Who said?” asked Biggles curiously.

  “Never mind—I don’t know,” muttered the man nervously, and it struck Biggles that the words “he said” had slipped out accidentally. “The ship is on the beach; could you land your airplane on a beach, eh?” he continued, looking anxiously at Biggles, whom he evidently assumed to be the leader of the party.

  “We could,” agreed the pilot.

  “Good! We will go shares, one half for me and one half for you three, eh?”

  “That’s fair enough,” nodded Biggles. “Where is it and when do we start? There’s no sense in letting it get rusty.”

  “I will show you in the morning—I shall be with you.”

  “In the morning?” echoed Biggles in surprise. “How far away is this yellow dross?”

  “Hundred miles; perhaps little more.”

  “Can’t be done,” said Biggles sadly, shaking his head. “We haven’t enough petrol and we’ve no money to get more.”

  “I give money,” replied the man at once. “I give plenty money. You have gas all ready to start at dawn. Take a shovel and tools for digging.”

  “Here, wait a minute; let me get this right,” muttered Biggles. “You know where some gold is hidden in an old wreck?”

  “Yes—yes.”

  “You’ll give us half if we fetch it—”

  “No—all fetch it; I come too.”

  “All right. If we get this gold we split it two ways; you pay expenses and we’ll be ready to start at dawn. Is that it?”

  “Yes, exactly, but keep secret; other people are on the trail. But how do you say—first come, first serve, eh?”

  “Certainly. That is, supposing this job’s on the level,” said Biggles earnestly, looking the man straight in the eyes. “I’m not doing any bank-busting or bootlegging.”

  “No, no, all square. Here, take this; be ready at dawn. Bring tools and food. We may be one day or two.” He thrust some notes into Biggles’s hand and hurried away towards the town.

  “Tell me,” murmured Algy weakly, “am I dreaming or do we start on a treasure-hunt tomorrow?”

  “We do,” grinned Biggles, “and we may never get another chance. I’m not altogether infatuated with this customer; he looks a bit queer, but it struck me that he knew what he was talking about. Come on, though; let’s see about getting the petrol; it’ll be dark in half an hour.”

  III

  “Here he comes!” Biggles, leaning over the side of the “Vandal”, flung the words back over his shoulder to Algy, who was peering into the early-morning haze on the other side of the machine. A canoe, paddled by a negro, bumped alongside, and their acquaintance of the previous evening scrambled aboard. He flung the boatman a coin and turned to Biggles.

  “We go,” he said in a sibilant hiss. “Waste no time.” His face was pale, and he was panting as if he had been running; Biggles glanced significantly at Algy as he dropped into his seat.

  Biggles started up the engine, which broke the silence with its powerful roar. As he sat back to allow it to warm up he looked around for the stranger and saw him peering anxiously out of the cabin-window at the quickly forming group of natives on the bank.

  “You’d better come and sit next to me,” he called; “you’ve got to show me the way.” Obediently the passenger crawled through the small cabin door into the vacant seat next to the pilot, which was normally occupied by Algy.

  “You’ll have to stay in the cabin with Smyth,” Biggles told his second pilot apologetically.

  He glanced at the thermometer, raced the engine for a moment, and then taxied quickly towards the open water near the harbour mouth. When he saw that he had a clear run he pushed the throttle open and soared through the screaming gulls towards the turquoise-blue sky above. For a few minutes he circled widely, climbing steadily for height, and then nudged his companion, who was looking over the side with an expression of mingled surprise and apprehension on his face.

  “Which way?” he yelled.

  For answer the man thrust a sketch-map into his hand.

  The pilot set the machine on even keel and allowed it to fly “hands off” while he examined the map closely. He had become sufficiently familiar with the coast to recognize the locality instantly; it was the delta of the Orinoco. In a backwater of the mighty estuary a spot was marked in red; he glanced at his companion, who was watching him anxiously, and raised his eyebrows inquiringly, with his finger on the spot. The man nodded. Biggles handed him back the map, which he no longer needed, and set his course north-west to follow the coastline he knew so well. He throttled back to three-quarter throttle and settled himself down for a two-hours’ cruise.

  On his right lay the deep green of the Atlantic, sweeping away until it kissed the horizon in the infinite distance. Below, an irregular white line marked where the surf waged eternal war on the broad belt of silvery sand. To the left, the dark, untrodden forest lay like a great stain between sea and sky until it melted at last into the purple haze of the dim beyond. There was little risk of losing the way, and except for keeping the nose of the machine on the unmistakable white surf-line by an occasional touch on the rudder-bar the pilot had little to do. The time passed slowly, but at last the breakers curled round to the east, and when the mouth of the mighty river lay before them he throttled back and commenced a long glide towards the backwater that was their destination.

  Reaching it, he circled once very low to make sure there were no obstructions, then sank lightly on to the still water and taxied up the silvery, sandy beach into the shade of a clump of coconut palms. He switched off, and climbed out. A humming bird hovered over the nose of the machine for an instant, and then darted towards a clump of exotic flowers that thrust themselves above the undergrowth near the edge of the forest.

  “Nice spot,” Biggles observed approvingly as he glanced around. “Where do we start digging?”