Orchids for Biggles Page 4

  ‘It seems we haven’t struck the luxury class, old boy,’ observed Bertie, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

  ‘Remember where you are,’ said Biggles.

  ‘Don Pedro said the hotel wasn’t too bad.’

  ‘By comparative standards he was probably right.’

  ‘Then I shudder to think what the cheap hotels are like.’

  However, they both had a shower and put on dry shirts, after which they sought José. They found him in the bar, having a beer with some llaneros, and joined him. On hearing that they intended to stay he said he would return to the Villa Vanda, leaving the packhorse and their two ponies against the time when they would need them for their return journey. He had already spoken to the stable boy who, as he knew the horses belonged to Don Pedro, could be relied on to take care of them. Biggles gave José some money for food before he started for home.

  They met, and made themselves known to the patron of the hotel, a Mexican who was obviously proud of his establishment. ‘You won’t find any snakes or scorpions here,’ he boasted, as he showed them the way to the dining room, which turned out to be in keeping with the rest of the place. Oddly enough, or perhaps it was because plenty of beef was available, they were served with a steak which they agreed was as good as they had ever had anywhere. Boiled rice had to serve for potatoes, which were not to be had. The fact that they were hungry may have had something to do with their appreciation of the meal.

  Over a cup of locally grown coffee, which also was excellent, Bertie requested to be told the plan of campaign, if Biggles had made one.

  ‘The first thing is to report to the comisaria to get our papers stamped,’ answered Biggles. ‘After that we shall have to try to locate the man we’ve come to find.’

  ‘And how are you going to do that?’

  ‘It would be unwise to ask questions, because word that inquiries were being made about him would be almost certain to get back to Neckel—that is, if he’s still here. We’re not even sure of that. All we can do for the moment is keep our eyes and ears open. We may see him, or hear a chance remark about him. I’m a bit worried about that Russian new arrival Don Pedro mentioned. It might be coincidence. On the other hand he may be here on the same job as we are. If this is the best hotel in the town he may be staying here, in which case we should be able to spot him. That’s enough to go on with. Let’s take a walk round the town to get our bearings. While we’re at it we can present ourselves to the sub-prefecto, Señor Vargas, who I imagine is boss of the local authority. The fact that he’s a pal of Don Pedro should make things easy. That’s where a local contact comes in useful.’

  ‘We haven’t yet signed the hotel visitor’s book,’ reminded Bertie.

  ‘I doubt if they bother with that sort of thing here,’ returned Biggles, a prediction that turned out to be correct, as the girl at the reception desk informed them with a flashing smile.

  ‘I say, you know old boy, that saucy minx has got her eye on you,’ observed Bertie.

  ‘What she’s got her eye on is a nice fat tip when we leave,’ answered Biggles cynically.

  Leaving the hotel they walked the few yards to the local government offices where, on being shown into his office, they found Señor Vargas in conversation with a stout, heavily moustached man, in uniform, who was introduced to them as the Intendente, head of the local military police. A half empty bottle of wine and two glasses stood on the table between them.

  The visitors were received with the courtesy that is natural to Spaniards, or people of Spanish descent, everywhere — provided they are not rubbed the wrong way — and on being informed that Biggles and his friend were British, and friends of Don Pedro at the Villa Vanda whom they had come to see, formalities were waived and their papers were stamped with hardly a question asked. In fact, Señor Vargas apologized for having to make the regular inquiry, had they anything dutiable to declare?

  Biggles listed the few articles they had brought with them, paid the small Customs due requested, and that was that.

  Knowing that inevitably there would be some curiosity as to their purpose in being in Cruzuado, Biggles offered the information that they had come from England to see Don Pedro on a matter of business, chiefly connected with orchids, and were hoping to stay a little while to see something of the country.

  ‘As you will have noticed, it is very beautiful, and the accommodation is excellent,’ declared Señor Vargas cheerfully.

  He obviously believed this, and Biggles thought it prudent to agree. Anyway, he had no complaints, realizing the difficulties of keeping law and order in a vast area, most of it untamed, far removed from the capital. Moreover, he liked the man who, although far from having an imposing figure, being small and lean, looked tough, and well able to hold down his job.

  After that they were all good friends together, their respective nations being toasted in a glass of wine. The Chief of Police assured them that they could rely on him always being at their service.

  After they had left the office Biggles said he had been tempted to ask, casually, if there was a man named Neckel living in the town, but had decided it was too early to ask such a personal question. That might come at their next meeting. He did go so far as to ask if there were any other British visitors in the town — supposing that Neckel would be traveling on his British passport — but on receiving an answer in the negative did not pursue the matter.

  ‘It looks as if Neckel may be passing himself off as a Peruvian, which of course he could, quite easily, having been brought up in Peru,’ he told Bertie.

  They took a walk round the town, waiting outside the post-office for a while in the hope that they might catch sight of Neckel; but to no purpose. They also looked in some of the bars, and had coffee at a café, with the same object in view, but saw no one remotely resembling the man they sought.

  Finally, feeling they had done enough for one day, they returned to their hotel for the night.

  ‘One thing we can be sure of is this,’ said Biggles, speaking quietly, for the walls were mere match-boarding. ‘If Neckel is only half as clever as we’ve been given to believe, he’ll anticipate the move our people have made, I mean, he’ll be prepared for agents to be sent out to locate him. It follows, therefore, that he’ll be on the watch for any new arrivals, whatever nationality they may be, or pretend to be. I’m afraid he’s more likely to spot us than we are to see him.’

  CHAPTER 4

  THE BAR FRANCISCO

  BIGGLES was beginning to get worried.

  Three days had passed, and in spite of all their efforts they had achieved nothing. Not that there was very much they could do. They had watched the post-office for long periods hoping to catch sight of their man; they had wandered round the public places, the bars, the cafés and even the cinema; they had listened to conversations; they had hung about the food shops to observe the customers; but all to no purpose.

  What Biggles did not like was the behaviour of the Russian, of whom Don Pedro had spoken and who was staying at their hotel. He seemed to be doing the same thing as themselves, wandering about the town with apparently no particular object in view. Was he watching them, or was he, too, looking for the runaway scientist? They didn’t know. They knew him well by sight, chiefly from seeing him in the dining room, but had not spoken to him, having no reasonable excuse for doing so. Aside from that, all they knew about him was his surname, Bogosoff, from having heard it spoken by the patron, and the fact that he spoke Spanish fluently.

  As Biggles had said at the outset, the trouble, or difficulty, of the situation was that they dare not ask questions, not only because word of such inquiries might get back to Neckel but for fear people would suspect they had an ulterior motive for being in the town; bearing in mind that according to Don Pedro quite a few of them were refugees from the law in their own countries. They would therefore be suspicious on their own account of people who asked questions.

  They had kept an eye on their horses to see they were properly fed a
nd watered by the Indian stable lad in charge.

  The weekend had passed off without any serious trouble although there had been some drunken behaviour, including fights, which as far as they knew had not gone beyond wrestling and fisticuffs. As Don Pedro had warned them would happen, a fair number of llaneros, easily recognizable by their clothes, had ridden in, most of them leaving their horses at the hitching rails provided for that purpose in the square.

  A disturbing factor that could not be overlooked was the possibility that Neckel was not there at all. He might be residing in another town. He might even have crossed the river into Brazil, or moved into Bolivia, no great distance away. In that case, as Biggles pointed out to Bertie, they were wasting their time.

  ‘But what about his letters? Surely he’d come in for them?’ queried Bertie.

  ‘He might send somebody for them.’

  ‘True enough.’

  ‘If we don’t soon get a lead we shall have to ask questions, regardless of the consequences.’

  ‘Where would you do that?’

  ‘The most obvious place is the post-office. We could ask if Neckel is still calling there for his letters.’

  ‘He may be using another name, in which case the answer would be no.’

  ‘That’s another snag. Failing the post-office I’d try Señor Vargas. He should know something about strangers who come and go. Better still, we could go back to Don Pedro, and putting our cards on the table ask him to help us. After all, he’s British. Being as well known as he is, he could get away with questions more easily than we would, having only just arrived. He must know a good many people here, the shopkeepers where he gets his stores, for instance. Dash it all, if Neckel is here he must either buy his food or eat out somewhere.’

  ‘As you said about the letters, if he’s the crafty customer we’re told he is he could get a servant to do that for him.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘I realize that. Well, it’s no use going on like this; we’re running out of time. Tomorrow I shall go to the post-office.’

  In the event it did not come to that, for shortly after this conversation they got, in a curious fashion, if not a clue, a piece of information that might lead to one.

  It happened like this. On returning to the hotel for lunch who did they find in the hall, apparently flirting with the half-caste girl at the reception counter, but José.

  ‘Hello! What are you doing here?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘Don Pedro sent me in to see if you and the horses are all right, señor.’

  ‘Come and have a drink. This is a thirsty climate.’

  At the bar Biggles continued, in a bantering voice: ‘José, I’m beginning to think you’re a sly old dog. What were you saying to that saucy young woman in the hall when we came in?’

  José affected innocence. ‘Me, señor! I don’ say nothin’. She speaks to me. Yes, I’ll have a beer, please, señor.’

  ‘And what had she to say?’

  ‘She asks me about you.’

  Biggles’ expression changed. ‘Is that so? What did she want to know?’

  ‘Where you come from, how long you stay and what you do here.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘I say you are friends of Don Pedro, come to see him.’

  ‘Why is she interested in us?’

  ‘She says a señor gives her some money to tell him of any new gringos who arrive at the hotel.’

  Biggles caught Bertie’s eye. ‘Indeed. Who is this inquisitive señor?’

  ‘She don’ say.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘She say she don’ know.’

  ‘Then how does she give the information to him? Does he come here for it?’

  ‘No, señor. She meets him outside after she finish here. He buys her many drinks.’

  ‘Where do they meet?’

  ‘She don’ say.’

  ‘Have you any idea why this man should be interested in gringos who come to the hotel?’

  José grinned broadly. ‘Maybe he has a gold-mine to sell. One of them smart guys, perhaps, who live by selling gold-mines and maps to show where old treasures are hid.’

  ‘You talk as if that was quite a business here.’

  ‘Yes, sah. Good business. All new men who come here want a gold-mine, and plenty of men here to sell one.’ José laughed.

  Biggles thought for a moment. ‘It could be I’d like to buy a gold-mine myself.’

  José looked surprised. ‘You don’ go for dat bunkum, señor. No good. If a man has gold-mine he keep it.’

  ‘You’re a wise man, José. But I’d like to see the man who asks questions about us. You know this girl pretty well, I fancy?’

  ‘Pretty good. Know her long time.’

  ‘Then I want you to find out from her the name of this man who is interested in gringos, and where she meets him.’

  José looked doubtful. ‘May be she don’ talk. Say she forget.’

  ‘Does she like money?’

  ‘Plenty.’

  ‘Then give her this, and see if it will help her to remember.’ Biggles peeled some notes from his wad. ‘Be careful how you go about it. We’ll wait here.’

  ‘Si, señor.’ José finished his beer and strolled away.

  ‘This is better,’ said Biggles, softly, to Bertie. ‘Now we may get somewhere.’

  It was a little while before José came back.

  ‘Well?’ inquired Biggles, a trifle anxiously.

  Jose cast a furtive glance around. ‘Better not talk here,’ he said. ‘Outside, in the yard.’

  ‘What did you find out?’ asked Biggles, when they were in the shade of the stables.

  ‘That gal Dolores she scared to talk too much,’ answered José. ‘She says she meets man every night in the Bar Francisco. He buys her plenty drinks.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Eleven o’clock.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Luis Salvador.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Dolores say she don’ know that. When he first comes here he stays in hotel for three days. Then he goes. Dolores think not far away.’

  ‘What country does this man Salvador come from?’

  ‘She not know that.’

  ‘She told him about us?’

  ‘She tells him about all gringos who come.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘One other thing, señor. When she meets him she take any letters for him at post-office.’

  ‘Does she though! Good work, José. You’ve done well. How long are you staying in the town?’

  ‘I go back now to Villa Vanda.’

  ‘All right. You can tell Don Pedro that all is well with us and we hope to see him shortly.’

  ‘Si, señor.’ Jose went over to his horse, which he had left at a hitching rail, and went off.

  ‘What do you make of all this?’ Bertie asked Biggles.

  ‘It’s too early to come to any conclusion; but with any luck we should be able to get a glimpse tonight of this man who calls himself Salvador. That may be his real name. Of course, his purpose in wanting to know about all foreigners arriving at the hotel may have nothing whatever to do with us. It’s unlikely that Neckel is the only man here who has reason to be suspicious of visitors. One thing is clear. This fellow Salvador has something to hide or he wouldn’t be behaving as he is.’

  ‘What about this girl Dolores?’

  ‘She doesn’t come into it. She’s merely a tool, a spy. I wouldn’t trust her a yard, anyway. She’d sell anybody for money. All the same, I’d say she told Jose the truth, as far as she knows it.’

  ‘What are you going to do — go to this Bar Francisco and watch what happens?’

  ‘Of course. I want to see this man Salvador. It could be Neckel, or a man employed by him. Neckel, having been born in the country, would have no difficulty in passing himself off as a local. But I can’t very well go to the bar, late at night, dressed like this. Among the sort of people
who I imagine use the place I’d feel a bit too conspicuous.’

  ‘What will you do about it?’

  ‘As you know, I’m not much for disguises, but I shall have to get some different togs — make myself look more as if I belonged to the place. It shouldn’t be difficult. All I aim to do is watch without being noticed.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘I’ll think about that and decide later. When we’ve had something to eat we’ll get the outfits. I’ve noticed two or three shops where they sell clothes.’

  They went back into the hotel where, in the bar, they saw Bogosoff in earnest conversation with a dark-skinned type who looked like a native. He was a seedy-looking individual with two front teeth missing. He wore a bush jacket that had once been white, and an old pith helmet of the same colour.

  ‘So our Russian friend has found a pal,’ murmured Biggles, as they went through to the dining room.

  The rest of the day passed quietly. All they had to do was provide themselves with the kit they needed, not as a disguise but merely to make themselves less noticeable among the sort of clientele that might be expected to patronize the Bar Francisco. This became more desirable when they had had a look at the place from the outside. It was larger than Biggles expected, but it was a drab, slovenly-looking establishment; in fact, nothing more than a low dive, typical of several they had seen.

  Biggles regarded the place critically as they walked past. ‘I don’t know how the town goes for common thugs and pick-pockets, but in that sort of den anything could happen,’ he observed. ‘We shall have to take some money with us, but I’m not taking into that hole anything I’d be sorry to lose. We’d better leave our identification papers in our room. I don’t suppose the hotel possesses a safe, and I wouldn’t trust it if it did, so we shall have to find somewhere to hide them.’

  Returning to the hotel they had their evening meal, after which, in their room, they tried on their newly acquired garments. At the finish Biggles might have passed for a fairly prosperous trader. Bertie was content with a shirt in the common local style, a plaited straw sombrero and, for good measure, a machete hanging from his belt. This was merely a whimsy, an ornament that amused him. He hoped he would never have to use it.