Biggles and the Pirate Treasure Read online

  With the watchers listening intently for the drone of the returning aircraft the gold-diggers climbed their rope and disappeared into the jungle beyond the end of the little delta.

  ‘Something’s gone wrong or Marcel would be here by now,’ declared Biggles, after a little while.

  Two hours passed. Nothing happened on land, on the yacht, or in the air.

  ‘I’m getting a bit cheesed with this,’ grumbled Ginger. ‘I vote—’

  What he was going to vote was never heard, for at this juncture there came a shout, as of triumph, from not far away, in the direction taken by the treasure hunters. It cut Ginger off short and brought them all to their feet.

  ‘By Jove! Is that the merry old savages having another go— ?’

  ‘There aren’t any savages,’ cut in Biggles. ‘I wonder what’s going on. Let’s go and see. Like Ginger I’ve had about enough of sitting here doing nothing. The yacht isn’t likely to slip its mooring if there’s gold in the offing.’

  They set off in the direction from which the sound had come; and they had not gone far when they came upon ample evidence of what had been going on. There was an open space, black, where the dry herbage had been burnt off. There trenches had been dug in several directions, revealing that the diggers had at least located the site of one of the pirate forts; for baulks of timber, rotten with age, lay about. There were also some squared pieces of rock. But none of these held the attention of Biggles’s party for long. Far more important was the behaviour of three men on the far side of the clearing, perhaps a hundred yards away.

  Stripped to the waist they were working like madmen, one wielding a pick, another a crowbar, and the other shovelling away the earth that had been loosened.

  ‘I told you gold sent men mad,’ said Biggles drily. ‘Let’s see if we can get closer. We can’t walk across the open ground.’

  By following the fringe of the jungle, however, they managed to get within twenty or so yards without being discovered. So intent were the men on what they were doing that Ginger suspected that nothing less than an exploding bomb would have distracted their attention.

  The climax of this feverish labour was reached just as Biggles’s party lay down in the deep shadow of the jungle to watch. What had happened needed no explanation. The men had uncovered the top of a box, or chest.

  This had been responsible for the first shout. In their desperate haste to get the box out of the ground they had torn the handle off it. This had necessitated more digging in order that the box might be lifted bodily.

  Biggles and his companions were just in time to see it prised out of the earth. It was not a very big box — perhaps two feet long, a foot wide and eighteen inches deep. Of what material it was made, wood, leather or metal, the watchers did not for the moment know.

  But apparently the workers knew, and the fury with which they attacked it with their tools brought from Biggles the remark: ‘Mad as hatters.’ As they struck at it they shouted with glee.

  The lid of the box flew off to an accompaniment of ringing cheers. The cheers ended abruptly as the men stared into the box. Then they broke out anew, and the fascinated spectators had the unique experience of watching the behaviour of men on the discovery of a treasure. For a minute they acted like lunatics; then, seizing their implements, they began digging again in a sort of frenzy.

  ‘Ha! They haven’t got enough,’ said Biggles whimsically. ‘They’re hoping to find more. But we must at least give them this. They came to find a treasure. Apparently they’ve found it. And that’s more than most people who go treasure hunting can say. Where the deuce is Marcel?’

  Not a sound, not a movement came from the sky.

  ‘If these fellows pack up and decide to pull out with what they’ve got they look like getting away with it,’ remarked Algy. ‘To take them on ourselves would be asking for trouble.’

  ‘Once they’re on the high seas they’re safe,’ said Biggles. ‘We daren’t touch them. If we did, we should be pirates. Ha! that’d be a joke, wouldn’t it? The French Navy wouldn’t dare to touch them, either, without risking an international kick-up.’

  ‘If they’ve any sense they’ll go, while the going’s good,’ reasoned Algy.

  ‘That’s just what they are going to do, I think,’ returned Biggles. ‘What the dickens is Marcel up to?’

  There was no answer to this question. But the treasure hunters were evidently satisfied that there was no more gold in that particular cache, for they threw their tools into it, and then proceeded to transfer the treasure from the box in which it had lain so long to haversacks that had contained food. The weight of the haversacks could be judged by the effort required by the carriers.

  ‘At least they’re having fun,’ murmured Bertie.

  ‘How long is it going to last, I wonder?’ sighed Biggles. ‘Let’s get back to our position where we can watch the yacht. If the crew is going to cut up rough it will be now.’

  They made their way through the jungle to their original vantage point, losing sight of the treasure bearers who were on the far side of one of the arms of the delta. These men either travelled in haste, or had an easier passage, for by the time Biggles’s party was back in position to observe the yacht they were on board. They did not stay on deck, where the crew stood watching them, but immediately went below. As soon as they were out of sight the crew, with significant gestures, strode aft, where they went into a huddle, heads together.

  ‘Take a look,’ whispered Biggles. ‘If ever I saw trouble being brewed, it’s on that deck. This sort of thing has happened over and over again, yet men never seem to learn the lesson. All Tew and his pals below deck can see is gold. Look! There they go — with an ultimatum, no doubt.’

  The crew were now moving in a purposeful manner towards the companion-way, led by a big, loose-limbed fellow, with a shock of flaxen hair. He was stripped to the waist. His sun-tanned arms and torso were heavily tattooed.

  ‘Don’t you think we ought to do something about this?’ queried Algy.

  ‘Certainly not,’ replied Biggles promptly. ‘Let them work it out themselves. If we butted in the chances are they’d join forces and go for us. We’re not in our own country, anyway. Marcel may still arrive in time to take a hand. I’m not moving unless they try to leave.’

  The crew, after a brief hesitation, with signs to each other enjoining silence and caution, crept down the companion stairs.

  ‘If it’s a matter of stopping the yacht from getting away we should be able to do it,’ averred Ginger. ‘The tide’s flooding. If we cut the two cables holding her she’d drift on to that bit of beach a little lower down.’

  ‘I think you’ve got something there,’ assented Biggles. ‘Incidentally, what have they tied up to? They couldn’t have made fast to the rock itself. Can I see a ring — an iron ring. Yes, by thunder! I can see several. Those fellows wouldn’t have bothered to do that. A yacht wouldn’t carry such tackle. The rings are red rust, anyway. They must have been here for... Why, what a fool I am! This is pirate work. This is where they moored their ships. This was the cove that served as a harbour for Libertia. It sticks out like a sore finger.’

  ‘I say! How absolutely enthralling!’ exclaimed Bertie.

  But these enchanting speculations were brought to an abrupt conclusion by others, more to the point, concerning what was happening on the yacht.

  Voices could be heard, rising ever higher in protest, indignation, anger, and finally — so it seemed — threats. Then came a shot, followed by a brisk fusillade. A man appeared on deck, running. He stumbled and fell.

  He rose, struggled to the rail and threw himself overboard. He managed to make a few strokes and then sank. The big flaxen-haired man, who had followed him, a revolver in his hand, ran to the rail, stared for a moment at the disturbed water and then went back down the stairs.

  ‘This is no longer amusing,’ muttered Biggles grimly. ‘This is murder.’

  ‘It’s certainly real pirate stuff — if that’s w
hat we wanted,’ said Algy softly. ‘Isn’t it time we did something about it?’

  ‘Yes. No — wait a minute.’

  To their horror, although not particularly to their surprise, the watchers saw two bodies dragged on deck and thrown overboard. The murderers, now subdued as if startled by what they had done, looked at each other and then went back down the stairs.

  ‘This is too much,’ declared Algy. ‘We should have acted before.’

  ‘In which case we might have been the ones to go overboard,’ answered Biggles curtly. ‘I’d rather have it as it is.’

  ‘What are they doing now?’

  ‘In all probability counting the coins which Tew’s ancestor got by shedding blood. Queer, isn’t it, how so often the past can come back and swipe you. Give those scoundrels enough time and they’ll shoot each other. But this is our chance. We’ll cut those cables and keep the crew below while she drifts. Ginger, you take the forward cable. Bertie, you go aft. Algy, you’ll come with me to the head of the companion. No noise. She may run aground before they realize what’s happened. If she grounds she should stick there. The tide’s on the turn. Come on.’

  They ran forward, Biggles leading, his automatic in his hand.

  It took them about ten minutes to reach the edge of the cliff above the yacht, for they had to go some way round and then wade across one of the arms of the delta. They could hear the men laughing and talking below. They could also hear the dull chink of money being counted.

  Biggles was first down the rope. He crept to the head of the companion-way. There Algy joined him. The others went to their respective posts.

  Ginger was the first to cut his cable. Instantly the bows began to swing.

  Then the stern moved slowly from the rock and the yacht was free. Ginger and Bertie, their work done, tiptoed to where the others were standing by the superstructure just aft of the companion cover.

  Silence fell, a strange attentive silence broken occasionally by the clink of gold that had just added three more lives to its list of victims. The yacht, broadside on, moved slowly towards the beach. The sun blazed down. A gull drifted over the cove on rigid wings.

  Ginger could imagine the fair-haired man counting out the gold while the others watched with suspicious eyes.

  The yacht had nearly reached the beach when one of those below discovered what was happening. He may have felt a movement. He may have looked through a porthole and noticed that the yacht was adrift. Anyway, there was a yell. It was followed by a scamper of feet. A tousled head appeared level with the deck.

  The expression of amazement on the man’s face when he saw Biggles standing there was photographed on Ginger’s brain for all time.

  ‘Get back and stay back,’ ordered Biggles harshly. The head disappeared.

  A babble broke out below.

  The fair-haired man showed his face. His eyes, too, were round with wonder.

  ‘Get back,’ snapped Biggles.

  A tattooed arm, the hand holding a revolver, came into sight.

  Biggles’s pistol spat.

  The arm was snatched back.

  There was a slight jar as the yacht grounded. She took on a list and remained motionless.

  A voice below shouted: ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You,’ answered Biggles.

  There was a short discussion below. Then came the question: ‘How much do you want to lay off?’

  ‘We don’t want anything,’ answered Biggles. ‘But there are some men on the bottom who’ll want your heads. The French still use the guillotine. Lay down your weapons and come up one at a time and you’ll have a fair trial.’

  The invitation was ignored. There was another discussion below. Biggles smiled faintly as voices took on a note of recrimination as if the men were blaming each other for what had happened.

  Ginger was wondering how long this state of affairs was going to last, for if those below could not come up, those on deck could not go below.

  The answer came from the sky. Perhaps the men below heard the approaching aircraft, too, for one of them shouted: ‘How about a thousand guineas?’

  ‘You won’t need guineas where you’re going,’ Biggles assured the speaker.

  It seemed that this remark was taken seriously; or as Biggles said, what was more likely, the murderers hoped by disposing of the motive for their crime, to make their conviction more difficult. At all events, a curious splashing sound took Ginger to the side, and there to his astonishment — and, it must be admitted, consternation — he saw a steady stream of gold coins pouring into the blue water. He told Biggles what the men were doing.

  ‘The fools. The silly fools. As if that will save them,’ said Biggles.

  The helicopter came roaring low overhead. Ginger waved his handkerchief although this was hardly necessary, for the yacht, clear of the rock and overhanging trees, was now in plain view.

  Marcel put the machine down neatly on the beach. From it sprang six blue-uniformed gendarmes, pistols in their hands. Marcel followed. ‘What happens?’ he called.

  ‘They’re all here except three. Come and get ‘em,’ answered Biggles.

  ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘On the bottom.’

  ‘Ten thousand devils!’ gasped Marcel.

  ‘No, just five,’ returned Biggles.

  The gendarmes splashed their way to the yacht.

  The modern pirates gave themselves up without firing a shot. But then, as Biggles remarked, what else could they do? Their case was bad enough without killing a policeman.

  Marcel apologized profusely for being so long away but he had had some slight engine trouble. The delay, therefore, was through no fault of his.

  As things fell out it may have been for the best.

  Thus ended the story of the Madagascar treasure. It began with bloodshed, and, as so often happens, it ended in bloodshed. Not in any way could it be described as the picnic Marcel had so confidently anticipated.

  By evening the prisoners were in gaol and the airmen back at their base.

  The French authorities had little difficulty in recovering the treasure, or most of it, from the shallow water into which it had been thrown. It was not so great as had been expected, amounting to fewer than twenty thousand gold coins of several reigns and nationalities. The French authorities took the view that this was the pirate Tew’s private cache, an opinion that was supported by an old document, with a sketch map, apparently in his own handwriting, which was found in a pocket of the modern Tew when the bodies were recovered from the bottom of the cove.

  The dead man, who had been so foolish as to try to gain the treasure by underhand means, had no doubt found the document in some old family books or papers.

  As a matter of detail, the French authorities, believing that the main bulk of the treasure was still in the vicinity of the cove, spent some time digging. But nothing more was found, and by that time the airmen had returned home.

  As for the crew of the yacht, their defence was that Tew had fired the first shot after an argument about the division of the treasure; and this was difficult to disprove. It might have been true, particularly if the crew had adopted a threatening attitude. So the trial dragged on and on, until the prisoners, who claimed to be American citizens, were handed over to their own country for punishment. The real reason for this was, the murdered men were Americans. One was a well-known yachtsman, and a wealthy one. It seems that Tew, who was in fact a descendant of the famous pirate, had no money. When he came upon the clue to the treasure it was to this unfortunate man he had gone with a proposition for the recovery of the gold. He would supply the map if the other man would provide the vessel. This was agreed, and the yacht owner had taken a friend with him — to his death, as it transpired.

  Of course, there was nothing wrong with the treasure hunt itself. Where Tew and his associates made the mistake was in not going to the French authorities. Had they put their cards on the table no doubt the French government would have given them a fair
deal. Naturally, this would have meant giving up part of the treasure, if it was found. For this apparently they were not prepared. They wanted the lot; instead of which they got nothing.

  We may suppose that the owner of the yacht trusted his crew. What he may have overlooked was, as Biggles had remarked, the sight of gold makes some men mad.

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  THE CASE OF THE OBLIGING TOURIST

  It began with one of those chance meetings which so often occur in the affairs of men to upset the best calculated schemes; and such meetings, traced to their beginnings, usually depend upon an incident so trivial in itself that no stretch of the imagination could foresee the consequences.

  And police records reveal that from this unpredictable factor the criminal has much to fear.

  Dressing, Biggles broke his sock suspender. He went out to buy a new one.

  Ginger went with him.

  It was a fine summer morning.

  Stopping to look in a shop window Ginger recognized the face of a girl looking in the same window.

  It was as simple as that.

  He nudged Biggles and said: ‘Look who’s standing next to you.’

  Biggles looked. The girl turned. Their eyes met. Both smiled.

  ‘Hello,’ said Biggles. ‘You were one of the WAAF’s in my Orderly Room during the war, weren’t you? Your name — let me see — Alice Hall?’

  The girl smiled delightedly. ‘Right. And you’re Biggles — sorry, I mean Squadron Leader Bigglesworth.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘How’s civil life treating you?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘No complaints. I got a job with a good firm and am still in it.’

  ‘You’re looking fine and fit.’

  ‘Just had my holidays — only got back last night. Went to the south of France with a Cook’s tour. Ten days in Nice. Not much money, but I had a lovely time.’