Biggles Forms a Syndicate Page 2

  “Not on your micky. This is my find, and with me finding’s keepings.”

  Biggles smiled. “Nobody’s likely to take a buried town off you.”

  “Somebody might try to keep me away from it. That’s why I’ve kept the story under my hat. And I might as well admit frankly that the reason why I’m telling you is because I don’t know what to do about it. There’s more hanging to it than a lot of old stones, anyway.”

  “Okay,” said Biggles. “Go ahead. We’re listening.”

  CHAPTER II

  DIZZY ENDS HIS STORY

  “FIVE YEARS ago I was posted to Aden for the usual period of three hot seasons,” began Dizzy. “As no doubt you know it’s the job of the R.A.F. to patrol the frontiers of the Aden Protectorate with Yemen and Saudi Arabia. Did you ever serve there?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’d better give you the set-up. The Protectorate is not much more than the coastal strip of Southern Arabia. It’s about six hundred miles long and is divided into about twenty sultanates, each being subsidized by us to keep order in his territory. That isn’t easy, because apart from tribal feuds, there are always smart guys trying to push a sultan off his chair in order to sit in it himself. The Arab populations are mostly concentrated in small towns along the coast, so for all practical purposes you can call the hinterland uninhabited.”

  “Are the Arabs friendly?”

  “More or less, but it isn’t safe to rely on it. They’ve really no time for white men. It’s mostly a matter of religion, in which respect they’re fanatics.”

  “What’s the ground like?”

  “The coast itself, washed by the Arabian Sea, is mostly the usual sandy beach. As you go inland it becomes what they call sabkha, which is salt plain, a mixture of sand and gravel. Beyond this the ground begins to slope up to end in a long range of rocky hills—sometimes two or three ranges, one behind the other. It’s all pretty grim. There’s practically no vegetation on the low ground, but as you get higher, towards the thousand foot mark, there may be patches of acacia and scrub palm which serve as camel fodder. I’ve seen bits of it here and there on the rakibs, a rakib being the local name for a patch of elevated sand on the hillside. The fact that the boundaries exist mostly in imagination doesn’t make it any easier for the sultans—or for us. Raiding across the border has always been a business, and lately, as you may have read in the papers, it’s been getting worse. The trouble, as in other places, is mostly communist inspired. Our aircraft stationed at Aden keep an eye on things, but for the most part it’s a dull job. The heat has to be felt to be believed. Incidentally, this was where I first had trouble with my eyes.”

  “Sun glare?”

  “That’s what the M.O. said it was. Perhaps I was a bit careless about wearing dark glasses—you know how it is. But that’s by the way. Oh, I must tell you that at wide intervals along the coast there are emergency landing grounds, not much more than areas of sand from which the loose rocks have been cleared. Still, in the event of engine trouble they do give one a chance to get down without breaking anything. As often as not there’s no one in charge, so one of our regular jobs was to give them the once over to make sure nothing had happened to them.”

  “What could happen to ‘em?”

  “You’d be surprised. It was nothing unusual to find the wind had shifted the sand leaving rocks sticking up, or maybe a dead camel lying in the fairway for you to trip over. One such place is called Hautha, easy to find by reason of a dry watercourse at one end of it. Nobody has ever seen any water in it but it makes a handy landmark. Another unmistakable marker, not far away, is a long tongue of loose rocks that might be the remains of a landslide in ages past. It reaches nearly to the sea.” Dizzy took another cigarette.

  “As a matter of fact on this particular trip I never got to the landing ground,” he resumed. “If I did I never saw it, for just before my estimated time of arrival I met a sandstorm whistling along the other way. Like a nitwit I hung on for a few minutes hoping to complete the sortie, with the result that by the time I’d realized it was no use, and turned for home, sand had got into the engine through the air intakes and she was wheezing like an old man with asthma. Another minute and the cylinders were scraping as if the pistons were nutmeg graters. With the engine boiling and likely to blow her guts out at any moment I realized I’d had it.”

  “These haboobs are the curse of desert flying,” put in Biggles. “What were you flying?”

  “A Fury.”

  “So you were on your own.”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What else could I do except bale out? There was no question of getting home. Nor, with probably nothing but rocks underneath me, was there any hope of getting the machine on the carpet in one piece. I was down to a thousand feet and daren’t go any lower because I’d been edging away from the sea—I didn’t want to finish up as sharks’ meat—and knew I might fly into the hills at any second. I couldn’t see ‘em. I couldn’t see anything. I was wearing a brolly, of course, so my only chance was to step out, which I did.”

  “Not knowing what was underneath you that must have been a sweaty moment,” interposed Bertie, sympathetically.

  “Are you telling me! Only I know how lucky I was. I was farther inland than I had imagined and already over the hills. I hit the deck, half way up a backward sloping line of crags, on one of those rakibs I mentioned just now, a rather long but narrow bed of windblown sand that might have been put there specially for me. It was a real feather-bed touchdown. I still couldn’t see a thing but I heard the machine crash a bit farther along and well below me. Well, there I was, properly up the creek without a paddle. All I could do was get out of my harness and wrap some of the brolly round my head to save being choked to death by the blasted sand. There I sat, waiting for the storm to blow itself out, which it did, as usual, about sundown. I had a pretty good idea of where I was, and when the moon came up I could see.”

  “What time was this, when it happened?” asked Biggles.

  “About five in the afternoon.”

  “Which meant you had about an hour of daylight left.”1

  “Yes. I knew a machine would be sent out to look for me but with a haboob blowing it wouldn’t be that day. I was about a hundred miles from home, and to try to walk that distance, without water, would be asking for it. If I stayed where I was I’d be fried like an egg in a pan the next day when the sun came up. The relief machine would soon spot the crash, of course, but that didn’t mean it would see me if I stayed where I was, squatting like a rabbit in the rocks. I was a good way from the sea. I decided my best bet, as soon as it got light, was to make for the crash, or for the emergency landing ground which I could see in the moonlight about a mile in the other direction. What I was most scared of was some Arabs might come along before the relief machine saw me. They might be all right. On the other hand they might not. You never know.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “First I had a look round among the rocks for a water soak, my mouth already being like sandpaper; but I might as well have looked for an ice-cream fountain. There wasn’t a bush or a blade of grass. Just rocks and sand. I spent the night where I was rather than risk breaking a leg to get down the cliff in the dark to the sabkha below; but at the first glimmer of dawn I was off, making for the black spot where my machine had burnt itself out. Any of the boys of the squadron out looking for me would be certain to see it. My best place was beside it, so there’d be no mistake about me being burnt up in it. Well, that was when I began finding things.”

  “Such as?”

  “The first thing I spotted was a fluted stone column that looked as if it had once been part of a palace or temple. It had fallen and lay half buried in sand, but it was a beautiful piece of masonry and had obviously been carved by a craftsman. I didn’t pay much attention at first because, as you know, the whole of the Middle East is littered with the ruins of bygone civilizations. As you can imagine, my on
e concern was to find myself back at the station with a long cold drink in my hand. My mouth was like old leather. But when I saw more pillars lying about, with bits of arches, hand- carved stones and all the rest of it, I did have a second look, because it was apparent that this must once have been a place of importance. The remains of buildings were lying about at all angles as if the place had been blitzed, or shaken down by an earthquake.”

  “And you thought of lost Ophir?” interposed Biggles.

  “Not then.”

  “But you must have heard of Ophir.”

  “Of course. But just then I had other things on my mind. The possibility that this was the site of Ophir came later, when I’d had time to think. Remember, I knew I’d got to get down off those rocks before the sun baked them red hot. Finding a way down wasn’t easy, which I imagine was why no one had been up there for—well, maybe for a thousand years. However, the next thing I saw did make me skid to a stop for a second look.”

  “What was it?” asked Ginger, who was following the narrative with intense interest.

  “It’s hard to know how to describe it. First of all you must understand that on my right, running the length of the rakib, was a cliff, varying, I’d say, between forty and a hundred feet high for a rough guess. It was more or less sheer, a crag with bits sticking out here and there. You can imagine the sort of thing. The object that caught my eye was a sort of crack, at the base, six or seven feet high, as if the rock had been split by an earth tremor, which was quite likely because that sort of thing is always happening. Aden itself is in the crater of an old volcano. But as I had a second look at it as I was passing it struck me there was something unnatural about the way the crack had occurred. That was why I stopped.”

  “What could there be unnatural about it?” asked Biggles.

  “The shape. It wasn’t straight. One wouldn’t expect it to be. And you couldn’t describe it as zig-zag. It was in the shape of a flight of steps, each one the same size with a clear-cut edge, as if a man-made wall had been pulled apart. Looking closer I saw that the crack had been stopped from going any farther by an artificial retaining arch built with beautifully fitting pieces of hand-cut stones. In other words this had once been the entrance to some place and the entrance had been walled up. Do you follow me?”

  “Pretty well.”

  “The artificial wall had opened as if it had had a wrench. Hence the crack. It was only a few inches wide at the top but got wider as it went down. At the base it was just about wide enough for a man to squeeze through. Peeping in I saw a hollow space behind it, although whether this was a natural cave or an artificial vault I still don’t know.”

  “Didn’t you go in?”

  “Not me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Had I not been alone I might have done, but I didn’t like the look of it. The walling looked shaky enough to collapse at a touch and being alone I jibbed at the possibility of finding myself shut up inside. That wasn’t the only reason. I could hear an aircraft coming and was anxious to show myself. I knew that whoever was flying the machine would be bound to spot my burnt-out crash. Naturally, if I wasn’t in sight he’d come to the conclusion that what was left of me was still in it, in which case he’d turn round and go straight back to base to report. I didn’t want that to happen. After all, I’d already been without water for hours, and while I knew a patrol car would be sent out to pick up my remains it would be hours before it could get there.”

  Biggles nodded. “I can understand how you felt, and in your position I’d have done the same thing. You still didn’t think of Ophir?”

  Dizzy laughed. “Why I didn’t I don’t know; but I didn’t. The thought that came into my head was this might be the cave where Ali Baba and his Forty Thieves used to hide their loot. Don’t ask me why. I did stop long enough to kneel down and stick my head in. It was pretty gloomy inside, but just enough light was coming through the crack for me to see if there was anything about, near at hand.”

  “Was there?”

  “Too true there was. The first thing I saw, leaning against the side wall, was a number of what in the Bible are called Tables of Stone. In other words, slabs of rock looking mighty like thin tombstones with writing on the smooth surface. When I say writing I mean incised letters. Words carved in the rock.”

  “In what language?”

  “Don’t ask me. I haven’t a clue. I’m no professor of ancient languages but I can tell you it was neither Latin nor Greek. The cave ran back for some way. I couldn’t see the far end of it, but what I could see was more slabs farther along. To tell you the truth, it struck me that I might have found the Ten Commandments. They, you remember, were on tables of stone.”

  “They were on only two tables.”

  “I know that now but I didn’t know it then.”

  “Anyway, you were a long way from Moses’ line of march to the Promised Land,” observed Biggles, smiling.

  “How do you know?” challenged Dizzy. “You weren’t there. If the Children of Israel were wandering about the wilderness for forty years they might have gone anywhere.”

  Biggles agreed. “Okay. Finish the story.”

  “Whatever these stones are they must be of tremendous historical importance. And they weren’t all. Standing in front of some of ‘em were tall, cylindrical shaped jars, made of some sort of earthenware. They had lids on.”

  “Real Ali Baba stuff,” murmured Bertie.

  “Exactly. As you can imagine I was tempted to slip in to see if there was anything in the jars. But there wasn’t time. One of our Furies was already circling round the crash and I realized it was time I showed myself. Waving my shirt, off I went down the hill.”

  “I thought you said you’d seen the treasure ? If you didn’t go in what’s all this talk about finding one?”

  “Don’t be in a hurry. I haven’t finished. When the aircraft arrived I was kneeling to look through the widest part of the crack. As I pushed myself back my hand pressed on something hard. I looked to see what it was. I picked it up. This is it.”

  Dizzy put a hand in his pocket and with a thud dropped on Biggles’ desk a large, thick, roughly round silver object. On it in high relief was stamped, or moulded, the head of a man with a long wavy beard. He wore a crown. No one could mistake the object for anything other than a coin.

  Silence fell as all eyes focused on it.

  “Very pretty,” said Biggles. “But I wouldn’t exactly call that a treasure.”

  “Give me time,” protested Dizzy. “I haven’t finished yet.”

  * * *

  1 All the year round there is little difference in the hours of sunrise and sunset, which is about six o’clock.

  CHAPTER III

  BIGGLES PICKED up the coin, examined it, and mentally weighed it in the palm of his hand. “A very nice slab of silver,” he remarked. “Must weigh a couple of ounces. Was this the only one you found?”

  “Yes. I’ve told you why I hadn’t time to look for more. But I’m pretty certain there must be more inside, in the jars.”

  “Could be, provided no one has been in and emptied ‘em. They’ve been there an awful long time.”

  “I look at it like this. Had anyone found those jars he’d have brought them outside to check the contents. He would then either have left them there or carried them away bodily.”

  “Yes, you make a point there.”

  “I’d say this coin was dropped as the stuff was being carried in. As you can see it’s as good as new, and I doubt if it was ever in circulation. Until I picked it up it may have been lying there just under the sand for close on three thousand years.”

  “You haven’t been able to identify the king whose head appears on it?”

  “Not positively. It could be King Solomon himself, who died in 930 B.C., or possibly King Sennacherib, who reigned from 704 to 681 B.C.”

  Biggles looked up. “Who told you that?”

  “A chap I met in the British Museum when I was swatting up all the
information there is about Ophir.”

  “You showed him the coin?”

  “Obviously.”

  “You said you’d told nobody about this.”

  “Well, I did let this chap see the coin. I couldn’t very well help it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Naturally, I was trying to find out something about it. I showed it to the curator of Assyrian antiquities and this chap happened to come in. The curator knew him as he’d been there before, studying the records for a book he was writing on the history of Arabia. The curator introduced us and asked for his opinion of the coin. It was he who said he thought the head must be that of Solomon or Sennacherib.”

  “Didn’t he want to know where you’d got it from?”

  “Of course he did. He was more than somewhat interested.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him what I’d told the curator.”

  “What was that?”

  “The truth. I said I’d picked it up in the sand when I was serving with the Air Force at Aden.”

  “Then what?”

  “He wanted to buy it, but I wouldn’t part with it. It was the only proof I had that I’d dropped on to something important. As a matter of fact I didn’t care much for the chap. He was a shifty-eyed, oily-looking type.”

  “I see. He wasn’t British?”

  “Nothing like it.”

  “What nationality was he?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask him. He looked like an Asiatic of some sort. Dark skinned, but not very dark, youngish; wore a small pointed black beard, the sort a man grows when he has never shaved. The curator introduced him by the name of Majoli.”

  “That isn’t much of a guide.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It might. He might talk, and the news of what you’d found get around. It’s my experience that the less you say about this sort of business, to anyone, the better. This chap Majoli, for instance, is evidently an enthusiast, and if he suspected you’d made an important discovery he wouldn’t rest until he knew more about it.”