Orchids for Biggles Page 3

  ‘The cunning devil.’

  ‘We’re dealing with a clever man. Neckel has a brain and knows how to use it. He seems to have thought of everything.’

  ‘Couldn’t you ask the United States government to advise the bank what’s in the wind and jump the scoundrel when he calls to collect the cash?’

  ‘He’s made provision for that. He informs us that when he goes to the bank to draw the money the documents will have been parcelled and addressed to a certain Soviet embassy. Should he not return from the bank he has arranged for the parcel to be posted. Thus, as he points out, we might get his body, but in so doing we would have made a present to Russia of the documents.’

  ‘Smart guy. What else does he say?’

  ‘He has handed us an ultimatum. If the money has not been paid into the bank in one month he will offer the parcel to Russia, anyway. We now have just over three weeks left to comply.’

  Biggles reached for another cigarette. ‘So you’re in touch with this sharper.’

  ‘Yes. By correspondence.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s living in a place called Cruzuado. We don’t know his actual address. He collects mail under a post-office number.’

  ‘Where is this place? I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Again we can see how carefully he made his plan. Cruzuado is a small town, population about three thousand, in Peru, on the eastern side of the Andes at the point where Peru, Brazil and Bolivia meet. It’s on the bank of one of the several rivers in the region, the Rio Jurara, one of the upper tributaries of the Rio Madeira which in turn is a tributary of the Amazon, the confluence being near Manaos, which as you know is a thousand miles from the sea.’

  Biggles looked puzzled. ‘What’s the idea of burying himself in the back of beyond?’

  The Air Commodore smiled wryly. ‘The reasons aren’t hard to find. In the first place he knows the country, and may have visited Cruzuado when he lived in Peru. But the place has another advantage, a strategical one. Apparently Neckel knows all about the difficulties of extradition. At Cruzuado he has three countries at his disposal, and a mere step will take him from one to the other. You don’t need me to tell you the difficulties of getting an extradition warrant even when we have an agreement with the country concerned. Where no agreement exists it’s practically impossible to get one.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘Which is why Israel recently took the law into its own hands and raided Argentina to get hold of that Nazi wholesale murderer of Jews. What was his name — Eichmann.’

  ‘And a nice stink that started. Even allowing that Peru, knowing all the circumstances, did agree to co-operate, negotiations would take months. Apart from that, too many people would have to know what was going on. At the first whisper Neckel would simply have to paddle a canoe across the river into Brazil and we would have to start all over again. If there was more trouble he could step into Bolivia. That’s no use. Neckel could play cat and mouse with us for years, and we’d be powerless to do anything about it. How could the thing be kept secret in those conditions? We’d be the laughing stock of the whole world. Russia would get to hear about it and in all probability join in the chase after Neckel.’

  ‘In which case they’d get him, since they don’t hesitate to employ methods which would be frowned on here.’

  ‘Yes. They have the advantage of us there.’

  ‘So you’re not thinking of trying to grab Neckel by force?’

  ‘No. We don’t want Neckel. If we had him he would only be an embarrassment. All we want is those documents, and we’ve got to get them somehow.’

  ‘From the time you’ve spent telling me all this would I be right in assuming you want me to tackle this job?’

  ‘You would.’

  ‘But why us? The Foreign Office has its own agents. Who had the bright idea that this was a job for the Air Police?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ve had my orders from a very high level and it isn’t for me to question them. I imagine speed is the main factor involved. We’ve only a little over three weeks to get those papers or, if Neckel carries out his threat, they’ll go to Russia.’

  Biggles shrugged. ‘Well, we’ve had some tall orders in the past, but this one is about the tops. Have you any suggestions as to how I should go about this?’

  ‘None. I’m leaving that to you. You can have anything you need, and you can do anything you like as long as you get those papers. There’s only one condition. The government must not in any circumstances be involved.’

  ‘The trouble with this country is, we’re too squeamish about the way we tackle traitors,’ asserted Biggles bitingly. ‘When some years ago a similar position arose with Russia, with Trotsky hiding out in Mexico, Moscow sent out an agent who made no bones about bashing Trotsky on the head with an ice axe.’

  ‘Don’t forget a Mexican court gave the agent a life sentence for his trouble. I’d hate to think of you spending the rest of your days in a South American prison.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I may end that way, but it won’t be for splitting anyone’s skull open with an axe.’

  ‘Well, make what you can of it. There’s a file with all the particulars you’re likely to need, photos of Neckel etcetera, so you’ll recognize him if you see him. But don’t waste any time.’

  ‘If this is all the information you can give me it doesn’t offer much of a chance,’ said Biggles, lugubriously.

  ‘We’ve done all we can at this end.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘We’ve arranged to put you in touch with an Englishman who lives in, or near, Cruzuado. He should be able to give you the local gen.’

  ‘What’s he doing there?’

  ‘He works there. His name is Peter Fotherham, better known on the spot by the Spanish equivalent, Don Pedro. He’s a professional naturalist who went to the country years ago and has never come home. He now acts as a collecting and forwarding agent for two or three London firms with interests in that part of the world. The lines being orchids, butterflies and small zoological specimens, for which there is always a market with museums and private collectors. Apparently he finds the stuff, crates it and sends it down the river to Manaos, where it is picked up by one of the regular steamship services which operate between that country and this.’

  ‘Can I go out by this service?’

  ‘No. It would take too long. You’ll have to fly out. We’ve been in touch with one of Fotherham’s companies, the one that deals in orchids, and fixed up for you, with one assistant, to go out as their representatives to learn that end of the business. It seems there’s more to it than one would imagine. Fotherham has been advised so he’ll be expecting you. No one has seen him for years, so you’d better be prepared for anything. We’re told he’s a queer type, but at all events you’ll have a local contact and an excuse for being in Cruzuado. Aside from that we’re also arranging with the appropriate offices in London for the papers you’ll need — visas and so on. You’ll travel of course as civilians, so for the time being you’d better forget that you’re police officers, or anything to do with the British government.’

  ‘Does this orchid concern know what we’re really up to?’

  ‘No. They may suspect you’re on a government mission but they don’t know any details. Fotherham knows nothing. He’ll take you at your face value.’

  ‘Fair enough. I suppose you don’t know if Neckel has these documents with him?’

  The Air Commodore smiled sadly. ‘That’s something he hasn’t told us, and I wouldn’t expect him to. But I imagine they won’t be far away from where he’s living. That’s the first thing you’ll have to find out.’

  ‘What about his personal habits, assuming he has some? I’m thinking he may have altered his appearance.’

  ‘I can’t tell you much about that. As you’ll see from his photograph he’s a weedy, neurotic-looking type, dark, rather high cheek bones and black hair worn long except where it’s getting
a bit thin above the temples. He chain-smokes cigarettes which he rolls himself, using a dark, strong tobacco which, not surprisingly, has resulted in a smoker’s throat, which reveals itself in a little dry cough. When he was here he wore a gold signet ring on the third finger of his left hand; but he may have discarded it by now. But you’ll find these particulars in the file. Read it and let me have it back. When do you think you could be ready to start?’

  ‘Tomorrow, if you’ll have the papers ready.’

  ‘I’ll attend to that. Who will you take with you?’

  Biggles thought for a moment. ‘I think Lissie would be the best man for the job, which seems one in which he could play the dumb Englishman to advantage. Ginger is too susceptible to fever for a locality where there’s bound to be plenty of it, and you’ll need Algy here to take charge while I’m away.’

  ‘All right. I’ll leave it to you.’

  ‘I’ll see you again, sir.’ Biggles picked up the file and left the room.

  CHAPTER 3

  CRUZUADO

  BIGGLES and Bertie spent a comfortable night under mosquito nets, and the morning following their arrival at the Villa Vanda brought a cloudless sky and torrid heat. The sodden earth steamed. Every tree shed a shower of water every time its branches were moved by birds or monkeys. The air was full of sound. Hummingbirds hummed as they hung, apparently suspended by invisible wires, over flowers that had opened their petals to the sun. Insects chirped. Frogs boomed or quacked like ducks. Large birds whistled or uttered raucous cries.

  Don Pedro, who had gone early to the pier to superintend the loading of a callapo, a large balsa raft, with crates of orchids consigned to the company’s depot at Manaos, to take advantage of the fast-flowing river, had been as good as his word. Four rough-looking ponies were standing at the door ready for the final stage to Cruzuado. Three carried ordinary riding saddles and the fourth a pack saddle on which the water-proof kitbags had already been slung. With the horses was Don Pedro’s yard man, a cheerful heavy-weight negro with a curiously small voice, named José, who was to act as guide and protector. The inevitable machete was thrust through a broad leather belt. He had been chosen for the job because he spoke a little English, having been with Don Pedro for some years.

  As Biggles and Bertie got astride their mounts Don Pedro came up to say goodbye and offer a final word of advice. ‘You shouldn’t have any trouble in Cruzuado, but if you do, come back here. José will take care of you. You’re sure your papers are in order?’

  ‘They should be.’

  ‘Then coming from Brazil the sooner you report to the sub-prefecto, administrador, the better. He knows me. He’s not a bad chap, but like most of them he’s apt to be officious with people who try to be smart with him. His name’s Señor Vargas. Remember me to him and say you’re friends of mine; that should see you all right.’

  ‘We’ll do that,’ promised Biggles, and the party set off, José leading the way with the packhorse.

  It was soon evident that Don Pedro’s description of the track had been somewhat optimistic and it was easy to see why he didn’t go to town more often than was necessary. It was no more than a wide path that had been hacked through the jungle. It was all ups and downs and rarely ran straight for any distance, being forced to make detours round obstacles such as giant trees. It was never far from the river, glimpses of which could occasionally be seen. The going underfoot was as treacherous as a jungle path can be, consisting of mud and rotting vegetable matter in which the horses, fortunately accustomed to it, squelched and slithered about as their hoofs stuck in the mire. From the broad evergreen leaves of branches that met overhead water pattered down as heavy rain. On both sides rose the virgin forest, gloomy and foreboding, yet not without a curious fascination. The heat in the leafy tunnel, for as such it appeared, was sweltering. There was not a breath of air.

  They passed a small clearing in which, in front of a primitive shelter, a party of Indians watched with impassive faces as the cavalcade went by. They were a squalid, poverty-stricken lot, as so often is the case with natives who are in touch with civilization yet form no part of it. José said they were wild rubber collectors who sometimes brought in orchids to Don Pedro, who paid them well for their trouble. The fools spent their money on things that were no use to them. They were all right when they were sober, but when they were drunk they went mad, he concluded casually.

  For the most part the journey was made in silence, Biggles and Bertie being too occupied in keeping their seats and trying to fend off the swarms of insects that travelled with them and seemed determined to make a meal off them or their mounts. Worst of all were what José called taranos, large horse flies with a vicious bite.

  There was plenty of life along or around the path. Parrots and parrakeets screamed overhead. Toucans uttered their absurd cries, like wheels in need of oil. Humming-birds of wonderful hues darted from flower to flower. Monkeys chattered and whistled high in the trees. From time to time the fragrance of some unseen flowers came wafting through the stench of decaying leaves. Often the track was bordered by ferns of fascinating delicacy and size. Butterflies of incredible shapes and colours crossed their path. On one occasion it was a huge cloud of the iridescent blue Morphos. Columns of umbrella ants crossed the trail, each individual carrying a disc of leaf many times larger than itself.

  Once Bertie had to duck to avoid collision with a huge moth that came whirling along, a repulsive-looking creature with mottled grey wings and a head like a human skull from which projected a long needle-like sting. Jose said it was ‘la cigarra de la muete’ which could be translated as the death moth. Anyone stung by it, he averred, either died or went raving mad in a few hours.

  ‘Do you really believe that?’ queried Biggles, dubiously.

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered Jose, frankly. ‘I’ve never been stung.’ He roared with laughter at his little joke. ‘No hay cuidado’ (there’s no need to worry), he assured them.

  ‘Jolly little fellows,’ remarked Bertie.

  There was a more serious incident when a small green snake, not more than two feet long, suddenly landed on the pack saddle and bounced to the ground. José was off his horse in a flash and with one stroke of his machete cut the creature in halves. It was, he said, as he remounted, a macabril, and volunteered the information that its habit was to sleep on a branch and jump on anyone foolish enough to wake it up. Its bite, he asserted, was fatal, unless the person bitten could reach water instantly. What the water had to do with it he did not say. From his carefree manner it was clear that this sort of thing was normal jungle travel.

  With their wet shirts sticking to their sweating bodies the party went on, and in due course José offered the good news that they hadn’t much farther to go. Already, as Bertie remarked in a voice of disgust, they looked as if they had been on the trail for a week.

  Across the river, from the top of a low hill, a few houses on the far bank could be seen. This, they knew, was Brazilian territory, they themselves being in Peru. A little higher up the river forked into two streams, and it was there, as they knew from an earlier study of the map, that the frontier marched with Bolivia.

  There were no further incidents, and they entered a region of partial cultivation, notably coffee trees, showing their scarlet berries.

  At first sight the town of Cruzuado looked a dreary, depressing place, and on closer inspection, far from improving, it was worse, being dirty as well as dilapidated. The main street up which they rode, having no surface, was simply mud; this was littered with rubbish, making it apparent that it was seldom if ever cleaned up.

  The houses on both sides were of the cheapest possible description, built of baked mud bricks, with the whitewash dirty and stained. Only the best could boast of corrugated iron roofs. The shops, which were small and without glass windows, were untidy and in general disarray.

  There were quite a few people about, a good proportion being lithe, slim-waisted llaneros, their legs bowed from long hours in the sad
dle, their eyes mere slits from gazing over boundless, sun-scorched plains. They were all alike. All wore belts slung low across their hips, often with a revolver hanging from it. Some also carried a machete. Long, ugly spurs, with vicious rowels, clattered on their ankles. They wore tight trousers, indescribably filthy. Usually their shirts were patched and their sombreros battered all shapes.

  Said Biggles to Bertie: ‘Take a look at some real cowboys. A different proposition from what we’re shown on the TV screens.’

  José, who must have overheard the remark, said they were sad, lonely men, guarding their herds on the llanos for weeks, sometimes months at a time, without seeing another human being. Who was to blame them if, when they did come into town, they went a little mad?

  He took his charges to the Hotel Comisaria, which stood in the plaza, the central square next door to the headquarters of the local authority, which included the Customs Office and the Police-Station. He said he would take the horses round the back and wait until they had made their arrangements for accommodation. He would bring in the kitbags.

  Biggles and Bertie, not exactly impressed by the exterior of the building, went in, and at a plain unvarnished reception desk, occupied by a pretty but cheeky half-caste girl, were able to book a double room, for which they had to make a deposit in advance. A sloe-eyed Indian boy took them up to it, and presently brought up the kitbags.

  ‘I don’t think I’m going to like this,’ said Bertie, as they went up the ant-infested stairs.

  He liked it even less when he had seen the bedroom. It was so small that two narrow beds could only just be fitted into it. There were no sheets. The blankets were far from clean and the mattresses were as hard as boards. The only piece of furniture was a wash-stand, with a cracked basin half full of brownish water. Nails driven into the walls served as pegs for clothes. Some empty beer bottles had been thrown in a corner. When Bertie asked the boy, when he brought the kitbags, about a bath, he was told there was a shower outside in the yard. He would have to provide his own soap and towel. The toilet was also outside.