34 Biggles Hunts Big Game Page 7

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  felt that here before his eyes was the very kernel of the nut he had come to crack. The whole point would be lost though, if he could not ascertain definitely what the object was. Suddenly the man holding it retired through the door and, to Ginger's chagrin, came back without it.

  But the business was not yet over. In a very short time another man appeared. He was accoutred in the manner of a precision tool mechanic; that is, he wore blue jean overalls with an eye shade as well as glasses. Ginger recognized him at once. It was the younger of the two men who had travelled to Kudinga in his plane—the fellow of the inky fingers. All his fingers, Ginger noticed, were now stained, and the stain now appeared to be wet, as if he had been interrupted at his work, whatever that might be. Dorov said something to him, whereupon he went inside and almost at once came out again holding a small piece of paper with a pair of tweezers. This Dorov examined with the greatest interest through a large magnifying glass which he took from his pocket. Again Ginger raised his binoculars. Beyond the fact that the paper had some printing on it they told him nothing. The object was small and the distance great. He had a suspicion what the object was, but suspicion was not proof, and it was proof that was needed.

  So far the conversation had been meagre, and carried on in tones too low for Ginger to catch the actual words. But now Dorov laughed aloud, and spoke in a voice that was audible. But to Ginger's intense disappointment the language used was foreign, and he could not make head nor tail of it. But it made the others smile.

  That was all. Dorov nodded, put on his dark glasses and set off back up the hill. The other two went back page 93

  into the power-house. A minute later an engine was started. It began slowly but soon settled down to a steady rhythm.

  Ginger felt that he could not complain about the results of his sortie. He had made a definite advance along the road of investigation. He was now satisfied that while the power-house might be used for its legitimate purpose it was also used for other purposes which, from the pains that had been taken to conceal them, were not so legitimate. Dorov was an imposter. He held, he felt sure, an important position in the racket. Two men at least were in the power-house.

  What Ginger would like now, he reflected, was a few minutes in the power-house to see just what was going on.

  However, he had done pretty well, and was satisfied with the way things were going. How to let Biggles know was the big problem. Having decided that he had seen enough to go on with he determined to return to the rendezvous without loss of time. Looking at his watch he saw, not without a twinge of anxiety, that he had already been longer than he intended. It was half past two. It would take him a good half-hour to get back. Bertie would have the sense not to hurry things, but there was no telling what Kisumo would do. Thinking things over he might become suspicious and work back to the spot where Ginger had fallen out to make sure that he was still there. Bertie, unless he flagrantly violated the rules, thus incurring grave risks, would have to abide by Kisumo's decision.

  Ginger stretched his limbs, which had become cramped, and was making the first move to descend when a slight sound made him look down. He promptly received a shock as horrid, if not worse, than that caused by the puff-adder.

  Standing under the tree, gazing up

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  at him with eyes blazing with malice, was a buffalo. It was no yearling, either, but a mighty old bull, grizzled round the muzzle with age. It did not move. It just looked, looked with a calculating sagacity that was almost human. How long the beast had been there, and where it had come from, he did not know. His attention had been focussed on the power-house to the exclusion of everything else. But it was there.

  Very gently Ginger lowered himself back into his seat.

  The tree had suddenly become a very frail thing. He had an uncomfortable feeling that the beast had only to lean against it to push it over, for its weight could more easily be reckoned in tons than pounds. He stared down again at the massive head with its tremendous spread of horns. It showed no signs of moving away. It was almost as though it realized that it had its victim trapped, and had only to wait.

  Ginger condemned it to perdition under his breath.

  For the ordinary risks of his business he was prepared, but this was something outside them. He objected to irrelevant factors intruding into the affair. They introduced an uncontrollable element of luck—in this case bad luck. That the brute should choose this moment to appear was infuriating. Then the thought that the beast must have been in the forest all the time made him break into a cold sweat. Things might have been worse. Had he met the animal on the ground his plight would have been very much worse. He knew the African buffalo by reputation. He knew that it was regarded by most professional big game hunters as the most dangerous beast on earth. This was not so much due to its size, its strength, its speed and its ferocity, as to its almost incredible cunning and its superhuman vitality. He recalled stories of how, in a charge,

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  buffalo had been raked through the vitals by bullets without the bullets having the slightest effect. He also remembered that buffalo had been responsible for the deaths of more hunters than any other beast in Africa. And the animal below him was the most dangerous type of all, an old, solitary, disgruntled bull, an outcast from a herd, always looking for trouble.

  His rifle, he was relieved to see, remained where he had put it, against the tree. For all the use it was, he reflected bitterly, it might as well be on the moon. Not that he would dare to use it even if it was in his hands, for the shot would be heard not only by the people in the power-house just below, but at the lodge. If he killed the brute, which was by no means certain, he would have to explain what he was going in the forbidden zone, and that would be extremely difficult. As for the revolver which he carried in his hip pocket, he might as well use a pea shooter. The animal, no

  doubt, had got inside the fence at the same place where he himself had entered. The gap that had served him so well, by an unkind twist of fate, looked like being his undoing.

  What worried Ginger more than a little was this; even if the creature abandoned its vigil it would still be somewhere in the forest, so no matter how long he waited sooner or later he would have to run the gaunttlet; and the beast was quite shrewd enough to watch him from cover and charge when there was no tree available. Of all the miserable predicaments he had ever been in, thought Ginger, this was the most exasperating. There was nothing he could do about it except wait. He looked down at the buffalo. The buffalo, face upturned, returned the stare with calculating hostility.

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  Half-an-hour passed. Ginger ate his sandwiches to kill time. They tasted like sawdust. The sun was well over its zenith, sinking fast in the western sky. The buffalo had not moved except occasionally to blow through its nostrils and paw the ground. Bertie and Kisumo would be back at the rendezvous by now, mused Ginger. What would Bertie think? He would be no more able to account for his disappearance than Kisumo. What would he do? Bertie could not very well spend the night on the open veldt. What was the alternative? What would happen if he went back to the lodge alone ?

  The mosquitos began to rise in swarms, adding to Ginger's discomfiture. He heard an aircraft arrive at the lodge. This in the ordinary way would have been an event of major importance, but in the circumstances he was not interested.

  One thought dominated all others. He wanted the buffalo to go, and go quickly, or all the newly—won information he had gathered was likely to be wasted.

  He sat still, watching the beast below. The buffalo gazed back at him with baleful, bloodshot eyes.

  Chapter 8

  Death In The Forest

  WHEN Bertie returned to the rendezvous shortly after three—thirty he was surprised to find that Ginger was not there.

  He did not of course know what Ginger intended doing, although he had a pretty good idea.

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  Still whatever he did, he fully expected
to find him at the place where he had last seen him. His failure to appear, therefore, left him nonplussed; but he was not alarmed. The difficulty was to know what to say to Kisumo. The only explanation that he could put forward—and he believed this himself—was that Ginger had gone on slowly towards home.

  He was not sorry when Kisumo had suggested that they should abandon hunting and turn homewards, for all day the black had been a dull companion, as if his mind was not on what he was doing. Bertie suspected that in his heart the man was afraid of being reprimanded should it be discovered by Kreeze that he had allowed his two white men to separate, for he had broached the subject several times, always in his limited English. Bertie had tried to trap him into using the American slang which he felt sure was his natural way of speaking; but in this he had failed. Sport had been equally dull. A lion on the skyline and a few indifferent antelope were all that had been seen. None was really worth hunting, and when in the early afternoon Kisumo had suggested that they should turn homewards he agreed without demur.

  Kisumo made it obvious that he was more than a little concerned at Ginger's failure to be at the appointed place, but then, of course, he did not know what Bertie knew, or guessed; which was that the ankle accident was a ruse. Bertie was uneasy. Ginger would not, he was convinced, remain absent if it were possible for him to get back. He remembered the snakes that were said to infest the bamboo swamp, and he hoped fervently that, if this had been Ginger's objective, he had not been bitten by one.

  They sat on the grass and waited for about half an

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  hour, without any sign of the absentee. The sun was now going down, and Bertie was forced to share Kisumo's opinion that there had been an accident. They walked on to the forest, giving an occasional hail but they might have been alone in the world for all the answer it produced. Bertie heard an aircraft in the distance. From the way the engines died he knew that it had landed at the lodge. Like Ginger in his tree who also heard it, he was not particularly interested.

  As the glow of early sunset flooded the world with soft pink light Kisumo announced sullenly that they must go back to the lodge to report what had happened. Bertie suspected that the man was not so much worried about Ginger. as the reception he would get when he reported to his boss that he had lost one of his charges. Bertle, convinced that Ginger would not go back to the lodge without hIm, would have preferred to wait; but Klsumo would not hear of it. It was time, he insisted, that he told Mr. Kreeze, who would no doubt send out a search party. This decision Bertie was compelled to accept, although what would happen when they got back without Ginger he could not imagine.

  They walked back to the lodge. Kisumo said they must go to the manager's office. Kreeze was not there so Kisumo said he would wait for him. Bertie went for a wash, and was drying his hands when a steward appeared to tell him that Mr. Kreeze wanted him in the office.

  When he arrived, one glance was enough to tell him that the incident—at least, that is what he supposed—had been taken seriously. There were present, Kreeze, Robinson, Doctor Dorov and Kisumo, and calmly smoking a cigarette, Tug Carrington. Bertie's astonishment was such that he might easily have given himself away; page 99

  but he recovered in time, and turned to Kreeze who, seated at his desk, was the central figure of the gathering. It so happened that Kreeze had followed his eyes, and apparently noticed Tug for the first time.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked sharply. "I told you to get some rest."

  Tug said he was sorry and went out.

  "You were wanting to see me, Mr. Kreeze?" prompted Bertie as the door closed behind Tug.

  " Yes," answered Kreeze, in a curious voice. "One of the company's pilots has just arrived from London, and he brought me a letter in which were some photographs that I found very interesting. As a matter of fact they should have been here a couple of days ago had there not been a hitch." Kreeze paused for a moment and then went on. "You told us, Major Lissie, when you booked your ticket, that you were an officer of the Indian Army."

  "Absolutely," agreed Bertie, wondering what was coming.

  "Then how do you account for that?" Kreeze selected a photograph from a number that lay on his desk and passed it over. Bertie took it, adjusted his monocle, and looked at the print. And as he looked a broad smile spread over his face. Not that he felt in the least like smiling, for the photograph was of himmself, taken at the entrance to Scotland Yard.

  " Why were you not honest? " questioned Kreeze, in an injured voice. " Why this deception? You would have been just as welcome here as an officer of the C.I.D., as the Indian Army. Surely you did not expect to find here anything of an improper nature? Or did you? "

  "One never knows you know—if you see what I

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  mean? " answered Bertie lightly. "Police officers are not always welcome. What's all the fuss about. I m not the first man to travel incognito."

  "It was not fair on the company," asserted Kreeze. " After all, the management is responsible for your safety and in a place like this an accident can easily happen. Who sent you here—Bigglesworth?"

  "Matter of fact, he did suggest that I might care to do a little shooting."

  "And have a look round at the same time suppose?"

  "We always look round, wherever we are, you know," answered Bertie.

  "And have you had a look round?"

  "Of course."

  "And what did you find?"

  "Nothing very exciting—so far."

  "And just what did you expect to find ?"

  Bertie frowned. "Here I say, aren't you getting a trifle presumptuous? I'm not going to stand here and answer your beastly questions."

  "Where's Bigglesworth now?"

  "Why not ring up the Yard—they may tell you."

  " Where's your friend Hebblethwalte?"

  "I don't know the answer to that one, either," replied Berlie truthfully enough. "He twisted an ankle—"

  " Yes—we know all about that. Kisumo told us."

  Kreeze drummed on the table with his fingers. "Well, that's all I have to say to you for the moment, Mr. Lissie. You had better take Kisumo with you and see if you can find Hebblethwaite."

  To say that Bertie was astonished by this suggestion would be to put it mildly. Considering what Kreeze now knew, a threat of instant death would have been more easily understandable. Then he realized that page 101

  without transport he was as much a prisoner in Kudinga as he would have been in an internment camp.

  "I trust you won't try to leave us without saying good-bye," remarked Kreeze in a silky voice. "You would have a long walk home."

  "Wouldn't dream of it," answered Bertie cheerfully, as he left the office.

  Actually, he was still feeling slightly dazed by the sudden change in the situation. To start with, Tug's arrival on the scene had shaken him not a little. Yet there was, after all, nothing remarkable about that, he reflected. It was merely that he had been so occupied with his own affairs that he had forgotten all about Tug. There was this to be thankful for. As far as he and Ginger were concerned the game was up. Kreeze knew who they were, and must know why they had come to Kudinga. But he did not know about Tug.

  That he himself should be allowed to walk out of the office, apparently free, was still something that he could not understand. More astonishing still was it that he had been allowed to keep his weapons. From the moment he saw the photograph of himself, and realized that the deception was finished, he was prepared to be disarmed and put under lock and key. But nothing of the sort had happened. Still, he did not attempt to deceive himself. Kreeze knew that he had got him where he wanted him. Moreover, it would be the easiest thing in the world for Kreeze to dispose of him, and Ginger, when it suited him to do so. He wondered if Kreeze was the head of the show, but doubted it; there was, he thought, a bigger man than Kreeze behind the organization. Anyway, the first thing to do now was to find Ginger and let him know what had happened; and as this was the very thin
g

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  that Kreeze had invited him to do there seemed no cause for immediate apprehension.

  Kisumo had followed him out. Together, at Bertie's suggestion, they went to Ginger's room to make sure that he had not come back. Actually, he was hoping to see Tug. And in fact he did see him on the verandah, but he was given no chance to speak to him. Rather than take a risk he decided that it would be better to wait. No doubt there would be a better opportunity later.

  Ginger was not in his room, so Kisumo strode on to the main gate. Without speaking they took the track which they had followed earlier in the day. Kisumo, as was customary, carried the rifle. Bertie would have preferred to carry it himself, but he was not in the mood to start an argument with the black, as would have happened had he asked for it.

  He was seriously worried about Ginger. He could not imagine what could have detained him for so long. They had little time in which to find him, for the sun was down, and twilight fast closing in.

  Striding on, they passed into the now gloomy aisles of the forest. And it was here, somewhere in the middle of the belt, that Kreeze's strange behaviour was explained. Bertie, not expecting any such revelation, was taken unawares.

  The thing began when he asked Kisumo for his rifle.

  It was, he knew, the hour when the larger carnivorous animals left their daylight retreats for the water-holes; there was a chance that they might encounter one at any moment and he wanted to be ready.

  Kisumo, who had been leading, stopped, and turning round in the middle of the track faced Bertie from a distance of a few yards. His whole bearing had altered

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  suddenly, and his expression with it. The respectful native had gone. An insolent negro stood in his place. Now, for the first time, when he spoke he used the drawling jargon of the American gangster.

  "You won't want this no more, brother," he jeered, referring to the rifle.

  "Why not? " asked Bertie, still not fully underrstanding.