Biggles Forms a Syndicate Read online

  “As a matter of fact he did ask me to meet him again. Wanted me to dine with him and some friends of his.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. As I’ve said, he wasn’t my cup of tea. There was something about him, I don’t know what it was, that put me off having anything more to do with him.”

  “So you never saw him again?”

  “No.”

  “Never mind. Finish the story.”

  “Well, that was all there was to it. I managed to get down to the level ground at the foot of the hill and a pal of mine from the squadron who was flying the machine spotted me. He made a radio signal to base and some time later one of our cars came along to pick me up.”

  “Did you say anything to the C.O., or in the mess, about what you’d found?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Why not?”

  “Had I talked the whole thing would have got out. I didn’t want that to happen. I thought if I kept my mouth shut I might get a chance to slip back to the cave one day for another look. Between ourselves, it was my intention, when on my next solo patrol, to drop in at the landing ground. But before I could do that my eyes started to give trouble and I was posted home. The next thing was I was grounded. After that I put in most of my spare time at the British Museum swotting up ancient Middle East history.”

  “It was then you got on the track of Ophir.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know. It’s hard to see how I can do anything on my own. That’s why I’ve come to you. I knew you could be relied on to keep quiet about it. If I went to a stranger, and he blabbed, and the newspapers got hold of the story. that’d be the end of it as far as I’m concerned. Archaeologists all over the world would join in a stampede for the spot. It’s likely that the Governor of Aden would then put the lid on any question of exploring. The Arabs would almost certainly get to hear about it and that would make things even more difficult. It would be in the local papers, and most of the Arabs around Aden can speak and read a certain amount of English.”

  “Gould you find this place again?”

  “Find it! Nothing easier. I could go straight to it. It’s immediately behind a long pointed tongue of rocks running nearly to the sea—the one I told you about. It’s a mile or so short of the emergency landing ground with the dry watercourse to pinpoint it. The rakib— the sandy shelf on to which I dropped, is a good mile back from the sea, halfway up the hills, backed by a long low cliff of grey stone. The cave itself is a little beyond where the pillars are lying.”

  “How long is it since you left the Service?”

  “Best part of a year.”

  “Why haven’t you been back?”

  “I’ve never had enough money for the trip. If I had, having served in Aden I know I’d never get a permit to go to the place. The authorities are pretty tight on that. Several people, including some well-known explorers and others who have had experience of Arabian travel, have applied for permits to dig along the coast, but it has always been refused. Let’s face it. It’s dangerous country, and Christians aren’t popular with the Arabs. The local government isn’t looking for trouble. I can understand it. They’ve plenty on their plate without having to send out search parties for missing persons, or even providing escorts for archaeologists.”

  “All right. Now you’ve said all that let’s come to the point. What do you suppose I can do about it?”

  “You’re in a different position from most people. You’re in the way of being a government official. If you applied for permission to go there you’d probably get it.”

  Biggles shook his head. “Not a hope. I’d be turned down flat, as other officials higher up the coast, at Dhutar and Oman, have been. Once permission had been refused I wouldn’t dare to go. How could I, as you say, a government official, break an order of that sort?”

  “Then don’t ask for permission. Go without it. If you hadn’t been refused they couldn’t accuse you of breaking orders.”

  “Have a heart, Dizzy. How do you think I could get there?”

  “You’ve got an aircraft.”

  “I have not. The machines I fly are owned by the government.”

  “Look,” requested Dizzy desperately. “Nothing could be easier than the trip I’m suggesting. All you have to do is fly out to Aden. That’s simple. Then you slip along the coast for a mere hundred miles and land on the emergency landing ground I told you about. You wait there while I nip up to the cave and collect the boodle.”

  “What boodle?”

  “The treasure that’s in the jars.”

  “And what if they turn out to be empty?”

  “What a wet blanket you are! There are always the tables of stone. They’d be valuable, anyway.”

  “I’m not a stone mason or a lorry driver. If you’re going to talk about heavy haulage what you need is a truck, not an aeroplane.”

  Dizzy looked crestfallen. “If you won’t help me what am I to do? Fancy being broke knowing where there’s a treasure waiting to be picked up yet unable to get near it. There ain’t no justice in the world,” he concluded disgustedly.

  “My advice to you is to go to the British Museum and tell them what you know. No doubt they’d be able to make arrangements to collect the stuff.”

  “And what would I get out of it?”

  Biggles grinned. “You’d get your name in the papers.”

  “That wouldn’t buy food or pay for my lodgings. What do you think I am—a film star or something? My name in the papers is no use to me. I’d rather wash out the whole thing and let Ophir rot in the sun for all eternity.”

  “What satisfaction would that give you?”

  “I’d have the satisfaction of knowing I was the only man on earth who knew where Ophir is, or was, however you like to put it.”

  “That wouldn’t pay for your lodgings, either.”

  “Maybe not, but I’d get a good laugh every time I read in the papers of someone airing his opinion as to why Ophir must have been here, there, or somewhere else. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to work my passage to Aden and do the trip on foot.”

  “You’d be a fool to try that.”

  “You wouldn’t think so if I came home with Solomon’s crown in one pocket and the Queen of Sheba’s pearl necklace in the other.”

  Biggles frowned. “What are you talking about? What have they to do with it.”

  “They were there. The crown jewels may have been parked somewhere and forgotten. I told you I’ve spent some time swotting up the subject. Sheba, famous for her gold and jewels, was Queen of Southern Arabia, notably the country now known as Yemen. The people were called Sabaeans. The story of her visit to Solomon’s court is told in the Bible, in the Book of Kings. According to history they had a son named Menelek, who became the first King of Ethiopia, just across the Gulf of Aden. They must all have known about Ophir, and no doubt were often there. It’d be a funny thing, you must admit, if, when these kingdoms fell, a lot of valuable stuff wasn’t left there.”

  Bertie, who had been polishing his eyeglass as he listened, stepped in. “I say, Biggles old boy, would you mind very much if I applied for a couple of weeks’ leave?”

  Biggles looked astonished. “No, I wouldn’t mind. You’re due for leave, anyhow. But why bring that up now?”

  “I’ve an idea.”

  “Not another! What is it this time?”

  “Well, I’ve got a few quid tucked away doing nothing. I thought of buying an aircraft, an old Tiger Moth or something of that sort, and doing a spot of aviation.”

  “For Pete’s sake! What’s the matter? Don’t you get enough flying on your job?”

  “Yes. But it isn’t that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Well—er—it’s like this, old boy. It seems to me that what with his eyes letting him down and nothing in his pockets to jingle life’s being a bit of a cad to poor old Dizzy.”

  “I quite agree. But what’s that got to do with it?”

  “I’m thinking of waffling him along to see if old Ali Baba left anything in those jam jars.”

  Biggles stared. “Are you out of your mind, too?”

  “Never was in it, old boy. That’s what they tell me. Never was in it. Don’t break out in a rash. This little trip I propose will be quite unofficial. No one need know where I’ve gone.” Bertie grinned sheepishly. “The fact is, I’ve heard so much about the Queen of Sheba that I have a yen to dangle her bangles on—”

  “Here, wait a minute,” broke in Biggles. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You mean—you’re really serious?”

  “Too jolly true I am. A change of air wouldn’t do me any harm. Nothing like a pot of gold to put you on your feet.”

  Biggles spoke slowly and distinctly. “Let me get this right. You’re telling us that you’re prepared to put up the money to buy a plane to take Dizzy to this heap of old stones that he fondly imagines is Ophir?”

  “That’s the scheme, old boy. You’ve got it,” confirmed Bertie, brightly. “It’s time somebody had a peep into those pots.”

  Biggles leaned back in his chair. “This brainwave of yours is likely to cost you a pretty penny.”

  “I have a feeling you may be right.”

  Biggles thought for a minute. He looked at Algy and Ginger in turn, then back at Bertie. He went on: “Naturally, we’d all like to help Dizzy on his latest dizzy stunt, but I don’t see why the whole burden should fall on you.”

  “Does that mean you’re thinking of tootling along with us?”

  “Not on your sweet life. You seem to forget I have a job to do. Even if I hadn’t I’d think twice before I threw a year’s salary
down the drain.”

  “Then what’s on your mind?”

  “To prevent any misunderstanding let’s get this clear right away. I shall have to stay here. But instead of you finding all the money for an aircraft I see no reason why we shouldn’t all row in, forming a syndicate, everyone sharing in the profits, if any, according to how much he puts in the kitty.”

  “Now you’re talking,” asserted Dizzy, delightedly.

  “And why buy an aircraft?” continued Biggles. “If you’re thinking of carting tombstones about you’ll need a better weight carrier than a Tiger Moth; and after the job’s finished you’ll want to sell whatever machine you buy, and there’s a very small market for second-hand aircraft.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Several air operating companies are in process of replacing their equipment with new types, either selling off or holding the old ones in reserve. Starways, for instance, are no longer using their Dakotas, although they still keep their certificates of air-worthiness against an emergency. No doubt they’d be glad to sell one, but I see no need for that. They’d probably let you hire one at so much a day on payment of a deposit to cover damage, insurance, and so on. That’d be more economical than buying a machine which you might find yourself stuck with afterwards. After all, from what Dizzy tells us the job sounds pretty straightforward and shouldn’t take more than a week or ten days at the outside. If you like I’ll ring Tommy Thomas of Starways and see if I can fix it up.”

  “I wish you would,” agreed Bertie.

  Biggles looked at Dizzy. “Have you got a civil licence?”

  “‘Fraid not. But that doesn’t mean I can’t fly an aircraft.”

  “In this case it does. I’m in no position to break regulations. Bertie, or whoever else goes on this jaunt, can do the flying. That can make no difference to the actual trip and it may save a lot of trouble should anything go wrong.”

  “I don’t see what can go wrong,” said Dizzy. “Just a straight flight there and back.”

  Biggles smiled faintly. “You’d be surprised. You’re not in the Service now, with the whole organization to take care of you. Assuming I can get a machine who else is going? Bertie will go, of course, as it was his idea. I can spare either Algy or Ginger. How about you, Algy?”

  Algy shrugged. “I’m not mad to go. If Ginger would like to be the third man that’s okay with me.”

  “Fair enough. Algy can stay with me to take care of things here. I’ll confirm with the chief that leave passes will be okay and then see about a machine for you. After that you can make your own arrangements. Take everything you’re likely to need, rations, plenty of water, and so on. It might be as well to include a few things you’re not likely to need.”

  “Such as?”

  “Tools. Spares. First-Aid outfit. You can borrow the one from the Gadfly. It’s new. I organized it myself, so I know it has everything in it.”

  “We’re not likely to want that,” said Dizzy.

  “Take it from me, my lad, when you leave the beaten track you don’t know what you’re likely to need,” declared Biggles, as he reached for the telephone. “I’ve had some experience of this sort of thing.”

  “I’ll see that all the emergency kit, including the Red Cross box, goes in,” promised Ginger.

  Biggles shook his head sadly. “At my time of life I ought to have my head examined before I allow myself to be caught up in any more imbecile schemes.”

  CHAPTER IV

  TRAGEDY LOOMS

  A FORTNIGHT later Biggles strode into his office in a manner, and with an expression on his face, that brought Algy to his feet in questioning alarm.

  “Have you seen this?” asked Biggles, crisply, holding up the evening newspaper.

  “Why no! What’s the matter?”

  “Listen.” Biggles arranged the paper to read an item. “It’s headed, Mystery of lost plane.” He went on: “An airplane, said to be a Dakota IV, has been found abandoned on the foreshore of Southern Arabia. It was first sighted by a patrolling R.A.F. aircraft two days ago. It is thought to be the British machine which, with a crew of three, refuelled at Aden and then continued on to a destination stated to be South Africa. The authorities are puzzled as to how the plane could have got so far off its course. An air search is being made for the three missing men. The plane has now been flown back to Aden by an R.A.F. pilot. If the missing airmen are not found tomorrow the search will be called off.”

  Biggles threw the paper on to Algy’s desk. “So there we are,” he said, grimly.

  “Where did this news item come from?”

  “The Associated Press correspondent at Aden sent it out.”

  “Is it dated?”

  “Yes. Yesterday. Which means that the search has by now been called off.”

  “I suppose there’s no doubt about it being—”

  “No doubt whatever. A Dakota IV, crew of three— there’s a limit to coincidence. Now we know why we haven’t heard a word since we had a cable from Aden saying they’d arrived. I was expecting any minute to hear they were back in England.”

  “The job didn’t turn out to be the slice of cake Dizzy seemed to think.”

  “Obviously.”

  “What could have gone wrong?”

  “There was nothing wrong with the aircraft or it couldn’t have been flown back to Aden. It sounds as if they reached the objective all right. Something must have happened after they got there.”

  “What could it have been?”

  “The most likely answer is they fell foul of some Arabs. That would account for them all being missing. One of them might have had an accident, but surely not all three. Had one of them had a fall, or something of that sort, the others would have flown him straight back to Aden.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “As we’re the only people who know exactly where they were going and what they were really doing we shall have to go and look for them.”

  “What’s this talk about going to South Africa?”

  “That was simply a red herring. They’d have to say where they were going when they left Aden, but for obvious reasons they wouldn’t say anything about flying along the coast to Ophir. If they had, as that’s a prohibited area they’d have been stopped.” Biggles paced up and down. “I should never have let ‘em go; but I didn’t want to seem churlish. It’s time we knew that these treasure hunting missions always come unstuck somewhere.”

  “You’ll have to tell the Air Commodore.”

  “Of course. I’ll do that right away, because every hour will lessen any hope of finding ‘em alive.” Biggles tossed his cigarette in the ash-tray and confirmed on the intercom telephone that the Air Commodore was disengaged. He picked up the evening paper. “Don’t go away,” he told Algy, as he left the room.

  The Air Commodore received him with an expression of curiosity on his face. “What’s the trouble?” he inquired. “You seem upset about something.”

  “I’ve something to be upset about, sir,” answered Biggles. “I’ve a confession to make. For a start would you mind reading that?” He laid the paper on his chief’s desk, indicating the appropriate paragraph.

  “Well?” inquired the Air Commodore, when he had perused it.

  “Lissie and Hebblethwaite were in that machine.”

  “Is that why you asked for leave for them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What the devil do they think they’re playing at?” The Air Commodore frowned. “Didn’t they know the Aden Protectorate is a forbidden area for civil aircraft without special permission to fly over it?”

  “They did, sir. So did I. I confess it was wrong of me to let them go but the circumstances were peculiar.”

  “They’d better be very peculiar or someone is going to get a rap over the knuckles,” asserted the Air Commodore, sternly. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

  “I think that must be the answer, sir. But the point is, if they’re not already dead they soon will be unless something’s done about it.”

  “Which I take to mean you want to go to look for them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know where they might be?”

  “I know where they were going and what they intended to do.”