Biggles Takes A Holiday Read online

  “What sort of secret—if you see what I mean?” murmured Bertie.

  Biggles extended his hands. “How could I know? I asked Linton if this man Liebgarten was sane or crazy—an obvious question. He said he wasn’t sure, but he was inclined to think that he was sane. I asked him if he thought this farming racket was genuine. That is to say, is this doctor chap really trying to make a little paradise of the place, or is he just a crook out for the money his victims bring with them.”

  “I should say he’s just a cheap crook,” declared Ginger emphatically.

  Biggles looked dubious. “I’m by no means sure of that. Consider the psychological factors. First of all, there’s the man’s name, real or assumed, Liebgarten, which is simply German for ‘dear garden’. Was it the fact that he was born with that name that first put the idea into his head that his mission in life was to build an earthly paradise? Stranger things have happened. Or was it the nature of the task that suggested the name? It would be interesting to know. Again, why does he persist in the scheme, knowing as he must that it will end in failure?”

  “Obviously, for the money he’s making out of it,” asserted Algy.

  Biggles became terse. “Listen,” he requested. “This business has been going on for at least six years. We know that because Linton spoke to a man who had been there for nearly that length of time, and when he arrived there were already a dozen people on the spot. The miserable victims die at the rate of about twenty a year. They all brought money, not less than a few hundred pounds. If that’s been going on for years the man running the show must have already picked up a tidy fortune. Why does he stay there? What’s he waiting for?”

  “Perhaps he likes the life,” suggested Algy.

  Biggles shook his head. “Not one man in a million likes being buried in the back of beyond for ever.”

  “Maybe he is the millionth man?”

  “In that case what does he want with all this money? He can’t spend it there. True, a lot of stuff comes up in the launch; and even though the man does live in luxury it’s hard to see how he can spend thousands of pounds a year. What could he spend it on? No, that’s where the story goes wrong somehow. What’s the sense in making a million and then staying where you can’t spend the money?”

  “Maybe the idea of power appeals to him?” offered Ginger.

  “What power is there in having dominion over fewer than a hundred miserable disease-ridden slaves?” sneered Biggles. “Why, with the money he’s got the fellow could command more power in London, Paris or New York.”

  “But just a minute,” put in Algy. “We can discuss that later. What I want to know is, where is Angus now, and how did Linton get out of a place from which, by your own account, it is impossible to escape?”

  “I didn’t say it was impossible to escape,” protested Biggles. “I said that the chances of escape were so remote as to be hardly worth considering. Linton did escape, anyway. Angus, if he’s alive, is still there. I’ll tell you how it came about. It seems that Angus and Linton decided that they would rather lose their lives than kow-tow to this self-made King of Paradise Valley. They would at least make an attempt to get out while they had their health and strength. They realised that once the fever got them it would be hopeless. They were discussing ways and means when they got an unexpected chance. The river came down in spate. Exploring the banks they found a native dug-out canoe washed up. They hid it in the jungle, and were collecting food for the journey—no easy matter, and one that took time—when Angus went down with fever. Linton would have stayed, but Angus wouldn’t hear of it. He argued that Linton would be the next to go down with fever, and there was always a chance that natives would spot their tracks on the river bank and find the canoe. Linton’s only chance was to get out then. He owed it to the other poor devils, anyway. This was their chance as well as his. The thing was to snatch it. Those were the lines on which Angus argued, and knowing him, we can well believe it. So Linton went.” Biggles paused to light another cigarette.

  “Linton didn’t go into the details of that trip, but it must have been hell,” he continued. “With a poisoned arrow in his leg, more than half-starved, rotten with fever he got to the desert. He couldn’t remember how he crossed it, but cross it he did, and more dead than alive got to the railway, where, having no money he jumped a goods train and so reached the coast. He struck it at a small port the name of which he had never heard, but apparently it was somewhere just north of Montevideo. By this time he was pretty well all in and didn’t remember anything about the last part of the journey. At the finish he had a stroke of luck. A British tramp steamer was in. It had discharged its cargo and was just weighing anchor, bound for the Port of London. The skipper, who must have been a good type—for Linton was broke to the world —waived formalities and gave him a lift as supercargo. He thought that the sea trip would put Linton on his feet. Maybe it would have done had not the poison in Linton’s leg prevented it from healing. To make a long story short he got to London, but he was a wreck of a man and the port doctor who saw him rushed him straight into hospital. Unfortunately it was too late. Poor Linton was too far gone. He must have known it, too, for he got the matron to send for me so that he could pass the story on before he died. He said he didn’t think it was much use going to the authorities—they wouldn’t believe him. He was probably right, there. The story did take a bit of believing. He didn’t tell it to me quite as I’ve told it to you. He got it out in bits and pieces, sometimes wandering in his mind, sometimes in sheer delirium, for which reason I couldn’t ask him some of the questions that occurred to me. The answers would have been useful. At the end he sank into a coma and never came out of it. I fancy it was only his spirit, his determination that someone should know the facts, that kept him alive for so long. Once he had got the story off his chest he went out like a lamp that is switched off. That’s all.” Biggles tossed the stub of his cigarette into the fire.

  There was a silence that lasted for some minutes.

  It was broken by Algy. “What are we going to do about this?” he asked quietly.

  “Obviously, we shall have to go to look for Angus,” answered Biggles slowly. “We can’t leave him there, rotting in that stinking jungle, that’s certain. It’s nearly six months since Linton left him so he may be dead by now—but we’ll ignore that angle for the time being.”

  Bertie cleared his throat. “Quite... absolutely,” he murmured.

  “How do we go?” questioned Ginger.

  “I’m certainly not going to walk,” returned Biggles shortly. “An aircraft, a marine aircraft for operating on the river, or better still, an amphibian, is obviously the best way of getting in and out of the domain of this jungle king. Whether it would be easier to get an aircraft here, where we should have the Air Commodore to sponsor us, or over the other side, is a question we shall have to discuss. A spot of careful navigating will have to be done when we do get there, anyway. We shall have to watch our steps, too, because most countries, for reasons best known to themselves, are getting mighty particular about who flies over their territory. Most of them have spies on the brain. However, I’ll give the matter some thought during the evening. Tomorrow we’ll get cracking.”

  * * *

  1 See Biggles in the Orient.

  II

  FIRST OBJECTIVE

  TEN days later a medium-sized heavily-camouflaged aircraft of the flying-boat class circled for a minute or two before landing on a long straight pool that was almost a lake at the headwaters of the Rio Parana, that mighty stream which, after more than a thousand wandering miles, at last finds the sea in the wide mouth of the Rio de la Plata and the South Atlantic Ocean. With twin engines growling the machine felt its way cautiously into the shade of the trees which, like a black margin, fringed the southern bank. The sullen mutter of the engines faded to silence. An anchor plopped. The cockpit cover rasped as it was thrust open. Biggles’ head and shoulders appeared.

  Behind this simple statement of fact l
ay ten days of activity as intense as anything Ginger could recall. It had started on the morning following Biggles’ visit to the Tropical Hospital and had continued almost without a break until the aircraft touched down on the Parana River. There had been so much to discuss, so much to do, that the time of every member of the party had been occupied to the full.

  First, and this began within an hour of Biggles concluding his story of the events narrated by the gallant, but unfortunate Linton, there had been a conference, a discussion on ways and means during which the table had become more and more cluttered up with maps, instruments and books governing international rules for aircraft procedure.

  As Biggles had pointed out, the most difficult part of the enterprise was to get to their destination without attracting too much attention to themselves, and without embarrassing any government by violating regulations, both national and international.

  Actually, as things turned out, the getting there was not the most difficult part of the operation; but then, the events that were to complicate the quest could not by the wildest flight of imagination have been foreseen.

  Biggles had taken the first obvious course of making inquiries about Paradise Valley at the London offices of each of the countries in which it might be situated, namely, Argentina, Bolivia and Paraguay. In every case the reply was the same. Nothing was known of such a place, although a member of the Argentina Embassy, obviously willing to be helpful, admitted that this was not the first time that inquiries had been made— presumably, Biggles supposed, by prospective emigrants who had seen the advertisement and had had the prudence to ask a few questions before committing themselves. Biggles did not of course divulge his own interest in the matter; it was, he decided, too early for that, and he could not see how it would serve any useful purpose.

  Anyway, it was evident that Doctor Liebgarten had been careful to keep his bogus paradise clear of official notice. Whatever was going on, it was certainly not with the knowledge or connivance of any of the countries in which the valley might be situated.

  Biggles then took his chief, Air Commodore Raymond of Scotland Yard, into his confidence. The Air Commodore was sympathetic but, as was to be expected, could not support officially any private scheme for the rescue of the inhabitants, British or otherwise, of Paradise Valley. More evidence would be required before that could even be considered, and as such evidence could not be obtained without a visit to the scene, there was, in common language, nothing doing. He offered to have the matter raised in the House of Commons, but this Biggles declined, knowing that not only would it jeopardise his own plans, but would warn those behind the racket that their organisation had been noticed and was under suspicion. He preferred to leave them in ignorance of this vital fact. Still, the Air Commodore, who admitted readily that something should be done, was prepared to let Biggles take a holiday for a couple of weeks. He would also lend a hand, unofficially, with the aircraft, equipment, and documents that would be necessary to carry out an investigation on the spot. Biggles would, he regretted, have to bear the cost of the expedition himself. The expense could not be defrayed out of public funds—not that Biggles would have made such a suggestion. The work of the British Air Police, which had been international in its application, had not passed unnoticed by the press and police forces of other countries, and as Biggles was known to have been associated with it he could rely on co-operation abroad provided he did not exceed reasonable limits. This, the Air Commodore opined, should smooth out a path in diplomatic circles that otherwise would have been extremely difficult.

  Aware that it would not be easy as an individual to get an aircraft suitable for his purpose Biggles accepted the Air Commodore’s offer with gratitude. In these circumstances he would, he decided, take a British machine and fly it to South America, following the usual route via Dakar, on the West Coast of Africa to Natal, in Brazil, and thence down the coast. An excuse for the flight could easily be furnished, and this, in the end, was the plausable one of a trial run to test in actual practice a new type of aircraft—a subterfuge which at least had an element of truth in it.

  The machine selected was one of the Navigator class freighters developed by the Planet Aircraft Corporation of Great Britain; an eight-seater high-wing amphibious flying-boat fitted with twin Ursus Major air-cooled engines and long-range tanks for overseas work.

  The wings folded for easy housing, and while the machine was not fast as modern speeds go it was of robust construction for rough work, and had an endurance range above the average of its class. It embodied a bow cockpit with storage space for marine gear. The cockpit was enclosed, with the pilot on the left side and detachable controls to the right seat. To the rear of the cockpit were navigation and wireless compartments with communicating doors giving access to the main cabin, built to seat four passengers or, alternatively, a considerable load of freight. So much for the machine.

  Petrol and oil were indispensable commodities, the provision of which worried Biggles not a little. They would, of course, be obtainable at any regulation airport, but, as he pointed out, should they require a considerable quantity after crossing the Atlantic, unless it was for the homeward journey, they might be asked questions not easily answered; questions which, were they answered truthfully, would probably cause the aircraft to be impounded and the operation brought to an abrupt conclusion. By using the spare accommodation in the cabin, space not required for food and equipment which they would have to take with them, it would be possible to carry a fair quantity of fuel over and above that in the tanks, and provided no unforseen circumstance arose, demanding extensive journeys, this might be sufficient for their purpose, although it would leave a margin smaller than was compatable with safety. Anyhow, it was all they could do. If they ran out of pertol and oil, Biggles declared, they would have to think out some sort of story to satisfy the authorities when they asked for more.

  Weapons were another problem. Strictly speaking, any arms carried would have to be declared on their arrival at any overseas airport, in which case they would probably be confiscated; yet, considering what they knew about the Valley of Paradise, and the nature of the undertaking generally, it seemed the height of madness to go without weapons of some sort. The difficulty was overcome by cutting a small secret compartment in a bulkhead, a cavity large enough to hold four automatics and a small supply of ammunition. Biggles didn’t like the idea of doing this even though his conscience was satisfied that he was justified; but there was no alternative.

  Just what would happen when they reached America was not easy to foresee. There would be no difficulty about refuelling at Dakar because their papers would declare Buenos Aires to be their destination—which, in fact, it was, after their real business had been transacted. But whether they would be able to slip away into the interior without causing comment was an open question. If everything went smoothly the machine need not be absent from civilisation for more than a day or two, and that could be explained away by arranging for engine trouble en route. But if they were absent for any length of time the aircraft would most certainly be posted “missing,” in which case the limelight would be turned on the expedition with embarrassing results. The Air Commodore had insisted, and Biggles had agreed as far as it was in his power to do so, that anything in the nature of an official inquiry must be avoided at all costs.

  The outcome of all this planning was that a week after Biggles had heard Linton’s story, the Navigator had made its landfall at Natal. Having refuelled it left again almost at once, ostensibly bound for Buenos Aires via Rio de Janeiro. What Biggles actually did was, to take the aircraft out to sea a matter of twenty miles, climb to twelve thousand feet, and then, some distance south of Rio, turn due west, timing his crossing of the coast to occur about two hours before dawn. By this simple ruse he hoped to avoid observation. Later, just as dawn was breaking, having circled for some minutes in order to study the forbidding terrain below, he glided down to an anxious landing on a broad river which his chart told him was t
he Parana, some four hundred miles from the coast and about a hundred from the estimated position of the valley which was their ultimate objective. The nature of the river, at this point, was something that he had to take on chance. No detailed information about it was available. He had tried to get into the country and find a reasonably safe mooring without having been observed, and he could only hope that he had succeeded. No amount of planning could do more. At all events, they were “ in “ and for the moment that was enough.

  As the cockpit cover slid back Biggles raised himself up and subjected the landscape—or what could be seen of it—to a thoughtful scrutiny, an occupation in which he was presently joined by Ginger, who had been sitting next to him.

  “Well, this is it,” remarked Biggles. “I think we’ve struck lucky. If every aircraft in South America turned out to look for us we should take a bit of finding.”

  “You’re right there,” agreed Ginger warmly, regarding the scenery without emotion.

  Not by any stretch of the imagination could it be called beautiful, although it was not without a certain fascination of its own. The general effect was depressing. Here was “nature in the raw,” where the vegetable was king. Only the broad black stream moved, and that with sluggish reluctance. On each side of it every form of plant life seemed to be engaged in a struggle for existence, striving always to reach the light. Right down to the waters edge great trees rose shoulder to shoulder from a tangled mass of undergrowth.