Orchids for Biggles Read online

  ‘Better leave that eyeglass of yours at home,’ advised Biggles. ‘It might cause a riot.’

  It was about a quarter to eleven when they set off for the rendezvous, not more than a quarter of a mile away.

  Biggles had decided that they might as well both go in, but not together, although inside they would keep close enough to be in touch by word or signal.

  Now that darkness had fallen, the kind of place they purposed entering was made evident before they reached it, when to their ears came the strumming of a string instrument and a babble of many voices. As they approached the door two llaneros staggered out locked in a tight embrace. Breaking apart, one knocked down the other, whereupon the man who had fallen got to his feet, and producing a bottle from somewhere, hurled it at his opponent. It struck the wall and shattered. The thrower strode away, muttering. The other went back into the tavern.

  ‘Very pretty,’ said Bertie, brightly.

  In accordance with the plan Biggles went in first, leaving Bertie to follow in a minute or two. He was greeted by a blast of hot air in which were mingled the aromas of beer, sweat, tobacco and paraffin-burning lamps. The noise was considerable as people tried to make themselves heard above an accordion and a guitar. In a space that had been cleared at the far end of the room, a girl, crudely painted, heavily built, but attractive in a coarse sort of way, was whirling her skirts in a Spanish dance. She wore huge earrings. Bracelets jangled on her wrists. For the rest, there might have been a score of customers, chiefly llaneros. Most of them lounged against a bar where drinks were being served by a man and a woman, swarthy, black-haired and dark-eyed. A few other people were seated in twos and threes at small bamboo tables laden with beer bottles and glasses. At one table four men were playing cards. Only one man was sitting alone. Biggles collected a glass of beer from the bar, and finding a vacant table in the background sat down to survey the scene.

  A minute later Bertie entered and did the same thing, choosing a table adjacent to the one occupied by Biggles, now trying to pick out the man they had come to inspect, if he was already there.

  Naturally, his eyes dwelt on the man who sat alone. He was slumped in his chair, and appeared to have had plenty to drink, if he wasn’t actually drunk. Could this be Salvador — or the man who was calling himself by that name? From what could be seen of his face under a wide-brimmed hat he certainly didn’t look like Neckel, thought Biggles. He seemed to be about the right build, but he wore a beard, untrimmed, and did not look very clean. Watching him closely he thought again when the man took out a tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette. But this, as he soon realized, was nothing to go by, because most of the llaneros rolled their own cigarettes. From time to time the man he was watching coughed, a little hard cough; but that, in such an atmosphere, was understandable. Biggles had also found himself coughing as the pungent reek of raw tobacco bit into his nose and throat. He remembered the signet ring which Neckel had been in the habit of wearing and his eyes switched to the man’s hands. He wore no ring. But that again proved nothing, as he might have stopped wearing it or perhaps had taken it off rather than let it be seen in the bar.

  The situation remained unchanged for some minutes. The girl finished her dance to a burst of applause, and there were shouts of ‘bravo, Maria,’ evidently her name, as she mingled with the customers. A man handed her a drink, whereupon she walked over to Bertie and sat on his lap. This was probably intended to be no more than a harmless joke; but Bertie, taken by surprise, apparently didn’t see it like that. Foolishly perhaps, he pushed her off, whereupon she slapped his face and spat on the floor. This brought shouts of ribald laughter.

  Biggles didn’t laugh. He didn’t like this at all. Bertie had become conspicuous and he could see the makings of a first-class row. For a minute he feared they were going to be involved in a rough house, for the girl was obviously popular. But to his relief the man behind the counter shouted something and Maria rejoined the men at the bar.

  Then into the room came Dolores, the girl from their hotel, now over-smartly dressed and scarlet lipped but really quite pretty in an exotic sort of way. Biggles pulled down the brim of his hat as she passed close to him on her way to the man he had been watching. She joined him at his table. He rose unsteadily and fetched two drinks from the bar.

  Biggles saw he had been right in supposing the man to be Salvador.

  As the pair settled down and started talking with their heads close together, into the saloon walked Bogosoff and the man with whom he had been seen in the hotel. They took up positions at a table as far away as possible from the noisy crowd at the bar.

  This was a development Biggles did not expect and he did some quick thinking. Had they come into the place merely by chance or had he and Bertie been followed? Or was it Dolores who had been followed? There was no indication.

  For some minutes Dolores and Salvador sat talking. Then, suddenly, they got up and walked towards the door.

  ‘Follow them to see where they go,’ said Biggles tersely to Bertie. ‘See you later at the hotel.’

  Dolores and Salvador went out with Bertie close behind them.

  Almost on their heels went Bogosoff and his companion, much to Biggles’ chagrin, for his object in sending Bertie to follow Salvador was that he might stay and watch Bogosoff. There was little time for thought, and as there was now no point in staying on alone he made up his mind quickly to follow. But again his purpose was defeated, for at that moment a fight broke out and it was a minute or two before he could get to the door. By the time he was out on the road the others had disappeared. Moreover, there was no one near to tell him which way they had gone.

  The moon was not yet up, and he realized that to look for them in the dark would be an almost hopeless proposition; so, after a brief hesitation, feeling frustrated he made his way slowly to the hotel.

  The time was after midnight when he walked in, but confident that Bertie would not be long he decided to wait in the bar. In this, however, he was mistaken. Time dawdled on. One o’clock came and there was still no sign of Bertie. It was then he had his first twinge of uneasiness. But there was nothing he could do. When the hands of the clock had crawled round to two o’clock, with still no Bertie, he became really worried; but perceiving it would be futile to go out hoping to find him all he could do was go up to his room.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE HOUSE IN THE FOREST

  IT was with no thought of danger in his mind that Bertie left the Bar Francisco to follow Dolores, or, more particularly, her male companion.

  He, no more than Biggles, knew for certain who the man was: there had been no opportunity to discuss what they had seen in the bar: the only thing not in doubt was, this was the man who, according to what the half- caste girl had told José, had so much interest in newly arrived foreigners. She had given his name as Salvador, so it was reasonable to assume that the man in front was the one known by that name.

  It did not follow that he was Neckel, hiding his face behind a beard and his identity under a false name. But there was a chance that it might be. Or he might be a man employed by him to undertake his errands. Against that it might well turn out to be that he was a man whose interest in gringos had nothing whatever to do with the reason that had brought them to the country. What they were doing, therefore, was really a shot in the dark in the hope of it finding the absconding scientist, for until they knew where he had hidden himself — always assuming he was still there — they were helpless to proceed with the object of their mission.

  It was a heavy, sultry, tropical night, with the stars hanging like jewels from a ceiling of dark purple velvet, giving ample light for Bertie’s purpose. A pallid glow, showing above the inky silhouette of the forest which everywhere pressed close to the town, revealed that the moon was on its way to join the stars and so make the task easier.

  He took the usual precautions to prevent what he was doing from being realized by the couple he was shadowing. As his job was simply to discover their destina
tion, which he imagined would be Salvador’s residence, he went no closer than was necessary to keep them in sight. With few people about, and none when they had reached the end of the main street, this appeared to offer no difficulty.

  With his eyes always on his quarry he walked on at the pace set by it, neither advancing nor dropping back. That he himself might be followed, or that someone else might be engaged in the same operation, was a thought that never occurred to him. Not once did he stop, and not once did he look round. So he was unaware that a shadowing figure was also keeping time not far behind him. It is unlikely that he would have paid any attention even if he had noticed it, because there had been no indication of such a possibility.

  The houses ended, giving way to some small trees standing in rows, evidently a plantation. What the trees were he neither knew nor cared, but he was worried by the shadows they threw across the road, making visibility ahead confusing. The mosquitoes were troublesome, but that was to be expected. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of the river on his left, although he was a fair distance above it.

  When something like nearly half a mile had been covered in this manner he began to wonder how much farther they were going. The road, which had deteriorated to a track, now split, the wider part wandering on into the forest, and a secondary track, little more than a wide footpath, diving down steeply towards the river. For a moment, at the junction, he was at fault, uncertain which way the couple had gone. He could no longer see them, but listening he could hear them, and went on down the narrow path guided by the sound of their voices.

  The path did not go far. In a minute or two he caught a gleam of white through the trees as the moon, now above the horizon, threw a beam on the upper part of a building. This suggested he had reached the end of the trail, and so it proved. Somewhere in front a gate creaked. The sound of footsteps died away.

  He went on, slowly, surveying the scene ahead, concentrating his attention of course on the house. Through some shrubs covered with large waxen blossoms he made it out to be a white-painted bungalow of some size, in better condition than the general run of houses in the district. Trees crowded down to it on three sides, but the front was clear and ran down in a shallow slope to the river. It ended at a small piece of wharfing, obviously intended to provide a mooring for a canoe that lay alongside. The only sound was the rippling of the fast running water, silver in the moonlight. He could see no one. Fireflies danced between the trees.

  He stood still to consider the situation. He was not very happy about it, for if Salvador and Dolores were as thick as they appeared to be it seemed certain that the girl would tell the man that two gringos were interested in his movements. Or would she? To do that would mean that she had been talking. Knowing where the money José had given her had come from she was hardly likely to mention that, anyway. It seemed that Biggles hadn’t been far wrong when he said he wouldn’t trust the girl a yard. It seemed probable that her services were for sale to the highest bidder.

  Advancing cautiously to the garden gate he soon found what he hoped to find; the name of the house. On a plain piece of board, nailed to one of the white plaster pillars that supported the gate, was painted, in bold letters Casa Floresta. Under it was a secondary notice that looked more recent: Se Prohibe la Entrada, which Bertie correctly translated as ‘No admittance.’

  A light appeared in the trees beside the house. With it came the soft murmur of voices. Thinking he might as well see all there was to see while he was there, Bertie moved his position to one that gave him a clearer view of the light, and the speakers. He found himself looking into a small courtyard, enclosed by flowers and flowering shrubs, with a direct entrance to the house, the door of which stood open. Standing about was some attractive garden furniture, including a table, a long seat and some chairs. A lighted lamp stood on the table. Towards the seat two people were making their way. They were Salvador and Dolores, the man carrying a bottle of wine, already uncorked, and two glasses. He stood the glasses on the table and poured some wine into them. They then sat together on the seat. With moths fluttering around the lamp and fireflies waltzing non-stop in the background it all made a quite enchanting picture.

  But Bertie was not interested in pictures at that moment. He was more concerned to see, or hear, what this meeting was about. He knew only a little Spanish but he hoped it would be enough to give him the gist of the conversation, particularly if names were mentioned. He moved a little nearer. But Salvador and Dolores were talking softly, their heads together in the manner of conspirators, and he could not catch a word.

  He had just decided he had done enough, for his chief purpose was to learn the name of the house, and he was about to retire when in a matter of seconds the scene changed. The garden gate was flung open, and into the courtyard bounced another woman. It was her figure rather than her face that told Bertie who she was. She was the girl Maria, who had been doing the Spanish dance in the Bar Francisco; and it was instantly clear from the torrent of words that poured from her lips that she was in a flaming temper.

  Dolores, who had sprung to her feet the moment Maria made her dramatic entrance, looked for a moment as if she was going to bolt; and she may have done that had not Salvador held her back.

  Maria strode up to him and pointing an accusing finger let fly a stream of words. This was loud enough for Bertie to hear, but too fast and furious for him to follow. What developed was obviously a passionate quarrel, in which the chief speakers were Salvador and Maria. Dolores shrank back looking scared. Actions made it clear what the fuss was about. It was the old story of jealousy. Two women and one man. Maria would not stop, her voice sometimes rising to a shout. Salvador did his best to pacify her with a glass of wine, but far from accepting it she knocked it out if his hand. The glass crashed.

  All this meant nothing to Bertie, who watched Salvador’s discomfiture with amusement until the storm blew itself out, Maria desisting from breathlessness. After the tempest came the lull, and in the pause Maria seemed to remember something. She said something to Salvador in a low voice at the same time pointing towards the path. The only words Bertie caught were ‘Bar Francisco,’ and they conveyed nothing. But apparently they meant something to Salvador, who walked quickly into the house.

  Deciding he had seen and heard enough, and was unlikely to learn more, Bertie backed quietly out of the bushes, and on reaching the path started on his way home.

  He reached the fork, and there paused for a minute peering up the wider track, hoping to see some indication of its purpose. He was just moving on when a sudden sound behind caused him to spin round. He caught a split-second glimpse of a shadowy figure standing close with an arm raised; then something seemed to explode in his head in a blaze of white light, which, spinning faster and faster, turned to orange, from orange to crimson, and finally to black.

  CHAPTER 6

  BIGGLES HAS A FRIGHT

  IT was about five in the morning when Biggles, tired of waiting for Bertie, sound asleep in bed, was awakened by a hammering on the door of his room, although he had left it unlocked for Bertie to get in. Still half asleep and wondering what the noise was about he scrambled out of bed, and having lit the candle, called ‘Come in.’

  The door was thrown open and into the room came the Intendente, a uniform jacket over pyjamas. Close behind came the patron of the hotel, in a night-shirt, wide-eyed, hair tousled, obviously just roused from his bed.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Biggles, staring at his visitors in astonishment.

  The police officer answered. ‘Your friend, señor.’’

  ‘What about him?’

  The officer shrugged. ‘He must have been very drunk last night.’

  ‘Drunk!’ exclaimed Biggles. ‘Nonsense. He never gets drunk.’

  ‘He has a fall and hurts his head.’

  ‘He didn’t fall because he was drunk, I can assure you of that,’ retorted Biggles. A thought struck him. ‘Are you trying to tell me he’s dead?’

  ‘Not dead, s
eñor, but very sick. Also he has been robbed. His pockets are empty.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the police bureau. We have a room for people who get hurt. It happens many times.’

  ‘How did he get there?’

  ‘He was found by a young woman. She thinks he is dead. She tells one of my agentes who, with the help of a passing llanero, carried him in. I send for the doctor who says he is not dead. Then I come to tell you.’

  ‘Where was he found?’

  ‘In the street.’

  ‘Where in the street?’

  ‘At the far end of the main street. We thought you should be told of this.’

  ‘Quite right, señor. I’m much obliged to you. Please take me to him.’

  ‘Si, señor.’

  Pulling on his shoes and slipping on a jacket, Biggles followed the two men down to the hall, where the patron left them, saying he would make coffee.

  In a minute or two Biggles was being shown into a small stuffy room where, on a mattress not too clean, Bertie was sitting up. His face was ashen; there was a bandage over the top of his head; his face and arms were covered with hundreds of minute spots of blood where mosquitoes had been busy on him, presumably while he lay unconscious before being found. His eyes were open, but he looked dazed, and could only smile weakly, in recognition, when Biggles walked in.

  ‘Sorry, old boy,’ he breathed, his lips just moving.

  On the cinema screen, from the way men recover from a blow on the head in a matter of seconds, and then resume a fight, or whatever they were doing, as if nothing had happened, it might be supposed that to be knocked unconscious by a heavy instrument is a trivial affair. In actual fact it is nothing of the sort. How long it takes the victim to recover depends of course on the force of the blow, where it strikes, and any protection the person struck may have on his head at the time. Which explains why policemen were, and sometimes still are, issued with helmets. But as a general rule, if a person has been really knocked out by a deliberate crack on the skull it is some time before he fully recovers consciousness.