Biggles Takes A Holiday Read online

  They went on, sometimes, when the path took a turn, stopping to reconnoitre and listen.

  The going was neither easy nor pleasant, for the undergrowth was soaking wet. The ground a slippery mixture of mud and slime and the atmosphere that of a turkish bath. Ginger sweated copiously. Nowhere yet was there anything remotely suggestive of paradise, according to the popular idea of it. The river on their right was opaque and dirty brown in colour as if there had been recent rain. The jungle which hemmed it in had an aloof, savage aspect; an impenetrable roof of leaves overhead and a chaotic tangle of lianas on either hand. There was practically no sign of life—an occasional heron sitting with hunched shoulders on a sandbank or on the skeleton of a dead tree overhanging the water, across which butterflies of brilliant hue passed and repassed. Once Biggles stopped dead, and his hand went to his hip pocket as he peered into the branches of a tree to the left, whence came a suspicious rustle; but it was only a three-toed sloth, moving with all the time in the world to spare from tree to tree. Far overhead parrots kept up a continual argument.

  These conditions persisted for what Ginger judged to be a good two miles; then, for no reason that could be discovered, the jungle broke down to open savannah, comprising for the most part stiff grass, waist high, broken here and there with growths of monstrous cacti. Across this the path continued, becoming all the time more plain to see. Far away to the left, rising ground indicated that they were entering the southern extremity of the valley.

  Another mile and they came upon the first sign of human occupation. It was an abandoned hut, half swamped by the ever-conquering vegetation—a dismal picture. Biggles glanced at it in passing but did not stop. A few hundred yards farther on they came to another, similar structure, but not so dilapidated, although, to be sure, it was crude enough. Only a wisp of smoke curling sluggishly from the roof indicated that it was occupied. Around it a blackened area showed where the grass had been burned off.

  At the far side of this a man was making a futile effort to cultivate the soil with a tool like a garden fork with the tines bent over at right angles. He worked slowly and with effort, first driving the points of the fork into the ground and then hanging back to uproot a clod. At the mere sight of such toil in such an atmosphere Ginger perspired more freely. His eyes clouded with sympathy. What the labourer’s nationality might be there was as yet no means of discovering, for a wide-brimmed hat covered his head and shoulders and the rest of his clothes were in rags. As they drew nearer, however, it became possible to see that he was a white man, thin to the point of emaciation. His movements were automatic, mechanical; there was no real strength behind them. He looked up and stopped work when he heard them coming, but his face showed no sign of animation or emotion.

  At a distance of ten paces Biggles called a greeting in English.

  Upon this the man’s lack-lustre eyes brightened a little.

  “Hello, where have you come from?” he returned in the same language.

  “We’ve just arrived,” Biggles told him.

  “God help you,” replied the man simply, wiping his face with a dirty rag held in a trembling hand.

  Biggles drew nearer. He looked at the red, calcined earth which the man had exposed, at his crude instrument, and then at the man himself. “What are you trying to do?” he inquired curiously.

  “What does it look like?” returned the digger, sarcasm creeping into his voice.

  “I don’t know—that’s why I asked,” answered Biggles patiently.

  “If you really want to know I’m trying to cultivate my farm,” said the man. His face twisted in a ghastly grin. “That’s what you’ll be doing presently.”

  Biggles shook his head. “You couldn’t be more wrong,” he murmured. “I’m nothing for digging. Tell me, what’s your name?”

  “Clarke—Joe Clarke, Chief Petty Officer, R.N.. That was me before I was daft enough to get myself demobbed and come to this hell-hole.”

  “I gather you don’t like it here?”

  “Can you see anything about it to like?”

  “Nothing,” admitted Biggles. “But if you don’t like it why do you stay?”

  “You’ll find out—and that won’t take long.” Clarke straightened his back with an effort.

  “Have a gasper?” Biggles offered his cigarette case.

  Joe Clarke took a cigarette and examined it with affected curiosity. “It’s a long time since I saw one of these,” he muttered.

  Biggles flicked his lighter and held out the flame. “Tell me, Joe, how long have you been here?”

  “Three years and a bit.”

  “Ever meet a fellow by the name of Linton?”

  “Linton... let me see now.” Clarke stared at the sky, passing a grimy hand across his forehead as if thinking was an effort. “So many come and go it’s a job to remember them all,” he explained apologetically. “Yes, I remember the chap now—dark, well-built type; brushed his hair straight back.”

  “That’s him.”

  Clarke shook his head sadly. “If I remember right the golliwogs got him—so we were told at the time.”

  “Golliwogs?”

  “That’s what we call those dirty little rats who live in the jungle. They ain’t human.”

  Biggles nodded. “I get it. Listen. Linton came here with a friend, a chap named Angus Mackail. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “Oh yes,” replied Joe without hesitation. “I’ve heard of him—saw him once or twice, not lately though, because I’ve been sick and didn’t often get as far as the colony. We prefer to muck along here on our own.”

  “We?”

  “Me and the missus.”

  Biggles stared. He glanced at the hut. “D’you mean you’ve got your wife here?”

  “Yes, I brought her here—God forgive me.”

  Biggles shook his head sadly. “So you don’t know for certain if Mackail is still alive?” he prompted.

  “No. They die so fast it’s hard to keep track. But if Mackail is still on top of the ground he’ll be down the far end of the valley.”

  “How far is that from here?”

  “Couple of miles, maybe.”

  “They tell me a bloke named Liebgarten runs this show?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where does he hang out?”

  “About the middle of the valley, down closer to the river.” Joe’s brow puckered in a frown. “But how did you get here without seeing him? He sees everybody.”

  “He’ll see us, too, before we leave,” asserted Biggles in a hard voice.

  “Didn’t you come on the boat?”

  Biggles exhaled smoke. “Not the one you came on.”

  “And what do you reckon you’re going to do now you’re here?”

  “Well, before I do anything else I’m going to find Mackail, who happens to be a friend of mine.” Biggles looked Joe straight in the face. “Can you keep your mouth shut?”

  “Not much reason for opening it here.”

  “Very well, then. The golliwogs didn’t get Linton. He got away. He died later from what he picked up on the trip; but before he died he gave me a rough idea of what was going on here.”

  Joe’s eyes opened wide. “Cripes! That is news. A lot of people have tried to get out but he must have been the first to get away with it. But you watch what you’re up to. You’ve got in, but you may not find it so easy to get out.”

  “Who’s going to stop me?”

  “Liebgarten will.”

  Biggles smiled faintly. “I don’t think so. Anyway, I understand he never uses force?”

  “He’s never had any need to. He’s got everybody where he wants ‘em.”

  “But not me, Joe. From what you say I gather you’d get out if you could?”

  “I’d had enough of the place, and more than enough, before I’d been here a week.”

  “Got any money left?”

  “Not a cent.”

  “How much did you bring with you?”

  “Five hundred and twenty quid. Some of it was part of my pension, and some of it was what the missus saved while I was at sea.”

  Biggles nodded. “We’ll see what we can do about it,” he promised. “Don’t work too hard—you’re wasting your time. You’ll be seeing me again, when I’ve got things straightened out with Liebgarten.”

  “Watch he doesn’t straighten you out. Hitler was an innocent little lamb compared with that lily-fingered rat.”

  “What is he—German?”

  “Nobody seems to know for sure, but I reckon that’s what he is. One of them die-hard Nazis is my guess.”

  “Okay. Here, have a few cigarettes to go on with.” Biggles half emptied his case into Joe’s willing palm. “We’ll be seeing you. So long.”

  Biggles walked on. “From what I can see of it Linton didn’t exaggerate,” he told Ginger quietly. “Every word Joe Clarke just said bears out his story. All the same, I’m still puzzled about Liebgarten. In order to exile his wretched victims the man has to exile himself, and I’m dashed if I can see the point of it. I could understand him spending a year here, or even two, if he was making a lot of money; but he behaves as though he intended staying here all his life. Well, we shall soon know the answer.”

  They glanced into Clarke’s house in passing. His wife was not to be seen, but they could hear her in the other room, for there were only two. One look at the miserable spectacle of squalor the interior presented and Biggles hurried on.

  As they proceeded the track gradually became a more definite path, with “farms” similar to the one on which Clarke had been working becoming more frequent. For the most part they were some distance from the track, so Biggles did not stop to investigate.

  Once they were accosted by some children, apparently memb
ers of the same family. All were clad in rags, and looked ill, their skins yellow with jaundice and eyes bloodshot from recurrent fever. They spoke only Italian, and Biggles’ frown deepened as he strode on. “Fancy letting kids get in that state,” he muttered. “Valley of Paradise, eh? I’m beginning to look forward to my meeting with this precious doctor. By that time I shall have found a more appropriate name for the place.”

  Very soon two large huts came into view. Except that they were constructed of rough timber they were not unlike abandoned army hutments. Some distance beyond them, at a spot perhaps a quarter of a mile away, a number of men were at work, in a rough line, using tools similar to the one employed by Joe Clarke. A little cloud of red dust hung over them. One man, in a white suit, stood a little apart, watching. Near him a boy was holding a tired-looking pony.

  “I wonder if by any chance that’s Liebgarten?” said Biggles, pulling up and shading his eyes with a hand.

  “Could be,” replied Ginger pensively. “He isn’t exactly exhausting himself with hard labour.”

  “Angus might be among those fellows. Let’s go over.”

  “Aren’t you taking a bit of a chance?” queried Ginger.

  “Chance of what?” inquired Biggles curtly.

  “Starting a rough house with Liebgarten.”

  “If he wants one he can have it. As I feel at the moment that would suit me as well as anything.”

  “Linton said something about him having a bodyguard of thugs.”

  “So what?” Biggles strode on.

  In a few minutes it became obvious that the overseer, or whatever office the idle man filled, was not the Doctor. He was a black man. The pony boy called his attention to the newcomers, whereupon he turned and subjected them to a prolonged stare, at the end of which he walked slowly to meet them. The men working did not look up.

  The black spoke first. He took up a position between Biggles and the workmen, feet apart, hands on his hips. In one hand he carried a riding crop. “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “It’s all right, I’m looking for somebody,” said Biggles evenly, and would have passed on, but the black sidestepped into his path.

  “You want somebody, huh?” he asked insolently.

  “Yes, and it isn’t you,” returned Biggles coldly.

  The black did not move.

  Biggles regarded him with eyes that had narrowed a trifle. “I said I was looking for somebody,” he said, speaking slowly and distinctly. “Have you any objection?”

  The negro seemed puzzled by Biggles’ behaviour. “Have you seen the Doctor?”

  “Not yet,” replied Biggles curtly. “I’m reserving that pleasure for a little later, after I’ve found the man I’m looking for and have heard what he has to say.”

  “What man you want, huh?”

  “Mackail is the name—Angus Mackail.”

  “Not here.”

  “I’ll satisfy myself about that.” With a quick movement of his arm Biggles thrust the negro aside and strode on. “Angus!” he called. “Are you there, Angus?”

  The working men, there were nine of them, stopped in their task and turned; and such was their condition that Ginger was by no means sure that he would have recognised Angus had he been there. Never had he seen such pathetic, dejected specimens of humanity. All were thin and hollow-faced with starvation or fever, or both. Unkempt, unshaven, clad in the flimsiest rags, their faces streaked where the dust had mingled with sweat, they reminded him of nothing so much as refugees he had once seen from a Nazi labour camp. It was impossible to guess their ages, or nationalities. Some shook with ague. None was fit for work, much less undertake the long and difficult journey to freedom. Ginger began to understand more clearly why they stayed.

  “Angus isn’t here,” Biggles told him in a quiet aside. Then speaking loudly he went on “Are there any Britishers here?”

  Two men raised hands.

  “Do you want to stay here?”

  “Do we look as though we like it?” sneered one of the men.

  “Okay. Take it easy. That’s all I wanted to know,” answered Biggles. “I’ll be back.” He turned away, and a curious smile crossed his face as his eyes settled on the black, now riding away on the pony. He was making for a spot where a group of trees cut into the skyline.

  Ginger also looked at the retreating horseman. “I have an idea you’ve started something,” he observed.

  “I’m going to, anyway, before I leave this dump, you can bet your shirt on that,” retorted Biggles grimly. “Come on, that’s the way we go.” He pointed in the direction taken by the rider.

  “Where do you suppose he’s going?” queried Ginger.

  “The same place as we’re going,” returned Biggles briefly. “To see his boss, Doctor Liebgarten.”

  IV

  STRANGE ENCOUNTER

  BIGGLES and Ginger were still some distance short of the trees into which the black had ridden when they saw him reappear, leading his pony, accompanied by a tall man in a white suit wearing a sunhelmet.

  “Here, I should say, comes the Doctor,” remarked Biggles.

  As they walked on towards the pair the negro swung into his saddle and trotted off, riding along the edge of the trees in a direction which, Ginger thought, was parallel with the river. The man whom Biggles surmised to be the owner of the estate came on towards them, carelessly swinging a light cane walking-stick.

  “You know, there’s something phoney about this setup,” declared Ginger. He indicated the number of men who were moving about the scattered huts, at no great distance on either side, engaged in one task or another. “If all these people hate the sight of Liebgarten, as they must, if they want to get away and he won’t let them go, why the dickens don’t they set about him and take what they want? But no. Here he is, strolling about without an escort as if he was lord of the blooming manor. I don’t get it.”

  “Linton said that the doctor had everyone nicely tamed,” reminded Biggles. “That’s how he runs the place.”

  “Would he make a pet dog out of you, always ready to eat out of his hand?”

  “I shouldn’t like to think so, but it’s no use blinking at what we can see for ourselves,” answered Biggles. “There must be something remarkable about the man or he wouldn’t get away with this.”

  “Do you believe in this plausible tongue theory, and alleged hypnotic influence?”

  “A plausible tongue will take a man a long way, although there must be a limit,” answered Biggles thoughtfully. “As far as the mesmerism stuff goes, a man of strong personality can undoubtedly influence people with less brain. If that were not so there would be no dictators. Nor would there be any confidence tricksters, which we know there are, to empty the pockets of people foolish enough to listen to them.”

  “Are you suggesting that all the people here are feeble-minded? Some may be, but surely not all. What about Angus, for example?”

  “They might not have been feeble-minded when they arrived, but a few months in this climate, on a starvation diet and periodical doses of fever, would certainly reduce their vitality. Besides, no man readily abandons a concern in which he has sunk all his money. We can take it for certain that this fellow Liebgarten has something about him that the others haven’t got, otherwise the racket wouldn’t have lasted as long as it has. But that’s enough. We don’t want him to hear us discussing the thing. What he’s wondering is, how we got here and how much we know.”

  “Are you going to tell him?”

  “Not likely—not yet, anyway.”

  During this conversation they had been drawing nearer to the man who was the subject of it. He was now only a short distance away, and Ginger regarded him with no small interest. Linton’s description had been fairly accurate. He was a tall, powerfully-built man, who in his younger days must have had the stature of an athlete; but the contours, both of his face and figure, were now a little too rounded, as was only to be expected in a man approaching his sixtieth year. Still, it was obvious that whoever else in the valley went short of food, the Doctor did not. He was immaculately dressed, even to white gloves.

  “He doesn’t look like a crook,” breathed Ginger.

  “Crooks seldom do,” murmured Biggles drily.