52 Biggles In Australia Page 9

  From the way he was killed he hadn't time to do anything.'

  'Then if it isn't here the murderer must have taken it.'

  Bill nodded. 'That's the only answer.' He fastened the swag and picked it up. 'That's the lot,' he said, and turned to go, only to stop dead, leaning forward, like a dog pointing game.

  Ginger did not have to look far for the reason. A hundred yards away a score of naked aborigines were standing in a group, watching them. All carried spears. To say that he was astonished would be to put it mildly.

  How, and from where, the natives had appeared in a scene that he would have sworn was lifeless, was a mystery.

  'Now what?' murmured Biggles.

  'I'll have a word with 'em. It may be the mob that murdered Joe.'

  'You know more about it than I do, but I'd say not,' replied Biggles.

  'The mob that killed Joe, knowing what was bound to follow, would surely make themselves scarce.'

  'We'll see.' Bill started walking purposefully towards the aborigines, who remained as rigid as if they had been carved in stone. 'If they didn't do the killing they'll know all about it.'

  'Have you got a gun?' queried Biggles.

  'I don't need one.'

  Biggles shrugged. To Ginger he said quietly: 'There are times when fearlessness can be foolishness.'

  Bill stopped at a distance of about twenty yards. 'What name?' he shouted.

  There was no answer, no movement.

  'Which way country belong you?' demanded Bill.

  No answer.

  'What yabber-yabber belong you,' persisted Bill. 'You been savvy what happen longa here.'

  The aborigines remained like graven images, their black eyes, unwinking, on the policeman.

  'Listen, Ginger,' said Biggles tersely. 'He's not going to do anything with that lot, and if he tries there's going to be trouble. Make for the machine. Start up. You may be able to bring it nearer. Behave as if nothing is happening. Above all, don't look scared.'

  'Okay.' Ginger started off for the machine, which was not directly behind them but at an angle between the two parties, so that he was able to watch events out of the corner of his eye.

  Biggles, with his hands in his pockets, was strolling nearer to Bill as if nothing unusual was going on. Coming within earshot he said: 'I don't think that's your lot, Bill. I don't see a rifle.' 'They won't talk.'

  'If they've decided to take that line you won't make 'em. Push them too hard and we're going to have casualties. We don't want that at this stage.'

  'I've never seen 'em in this mood before,' came back Bill, in a voice tense with chagrin.

  Biggles realized the position Bill was in. To retire now would look like weakness, loss of face. To go on was to invite open hostility. 'You please yourself what you do; it's your country and you know best,' he said, and lit another cigarette.

  The Halifax's engines came to life and the big machine moved slowly and ponderously towards the opposing parties.

  Said Bill, reluctantly: 'I suppose you're right, but I hate letting 'em get away with it.' He half turned.

  The movement might have been the signal for which the aborigines were waiting. While Bill's eyes were on them, like animals, they hesitated to do anything; but the instant he turned, they acted. With shrill whistles and strange cries they began to fan out.

  Bill stared. Not only was he obviously surprised by this behaviour but it was evident that he still had not grasped what was unpleasantly obvious to Biggles; that their lives were in danger. Familiarity with natives normally friendly, had, no doubt, bred contempt, as was understandable.

  He refused to be intimidated, and it was with reluctance that he moved unhurriedly with Biggles towards the machine.

  At the last minute a spear was thrown. It did no harm. But it so enraged Bill that Ginger, who was watching from the cockpit, thought that he was going for the thrower; a course that looked, and probably would have been, suicidal. Biggles had a pistol but he had not drawn it, presumably hoping to avoid hostilities. In any case it would not have been much use against the mob, had they charged.

  Ginger decided to take matters into his own hands. Advancing the throttle, as the machine responded he swung it round so that the tail pointed at the natives. The result can be imagined. On the tearing slipstream of the four powerful engines a wall of dust, sand and dead vegetation, struck them like a tidal wave, and for a moment engulfed them. The stuff may well have stung their exposed bodies. At all events, it was more than they could face, and presently vague figures, hands over eyes, could be seen staggering about as they sought to get out of the blast.

  Biggles and Bill took the opportunity to get aboard and the immediate danger was past.

  Ginger relinquished his seat to Biggles, who said, 'Well done.' He did not take off at once, but turning to Bill, asked: 'Now what do you want to do? Do you want to go back to Broome or shall I go back to Tarracooma?'

  'I'd rather get back to Broome,' answered Bill; 'Whether it suits your book or not I shall have to report the murder of Joe Hopkins, and the behaviour of those lunatics outside. I can't think what the deuce has come over them.'

  'I can,' murmured Biggles. 'I hate saying I told you so, but I did try to give you an idea of what we might expect. We've got to work fast, Bill, or Joe Hopkins won't be the only man to perish. I'll take you home.'

  Leaving the naked warriors watching from a distance the Halifax roared into the air.

  CHAPTER X

  Claws Out at Tarracooma

  They got back to Broome to find the Otter there, just in. Algy said they had spotted the Matilda about seventy miles out, on a course for the mouth of the Daly.

  'That's what I expected, and all I want to know about it for the time being,' said Biggles.

  He introduced Algy and Bertie to Bill, and then told them the result of their morning's work. Ì'm pretty certain now that whatever else von Stalhein's associates are doing in Australia part of their job is to unsettle the aborigines. Aside from any material damage the natives may do it tends to focus attention on them, which, of course, by employing police and aircraft, makes things easier for the spy ring to operate. How many aborigines have you got in Australia, Bill?'

  'As near as can be judged, about fifty thousand. In addition, there are a lot of mixed race.'

  Biggles nodded. 'If, as it seems, somebody has been working on the aborigines to antagonize them, we can expect the same conditions in the Territory. In Western Australia the trouble may have started at Tarracooma. In the Territory, up the Daly.' He looked at Bill seriously.

  'I realize that you'll have to report the killing of Joe Hopkins, and try to find the murderer; but while

  you're doing that the trouble may spread. I imagine Hopkins wasn't the only lone prospector out in the wilds.'

  Not by a long chalk. Some fellows work alone, others in pairs. And there are homesteads right off the map.'

  'They ought to be warned. The question is how to do it without starting a scare — and being laughed at for alarmists. And while people are laughing, the propaganda agents, realizing that their racket has been rumbled, will work all the harder to set things alight.

  There's no time to lose. This ugly weed has got to be nipped in the bud.

  You can see how I'm fixed. I've no authority here to arrest anyone, even if I had a definite charge against him, which I haven't — yet.'

  'I might get the fellow who killed Hopkins. I've a good tracker.'

  'And while you're looking for him more murders may be committed. You might even be murdered yourself'

  'What do you suggest I do?'

  'What do you suggest I do? Of course, I could go to Sydney and see one of your Security people whose name has been given me; but that would take time, and it would certainly be some time before anything was done. I should have to convince the man that I wasn't talking through my hat, and he'd have to get instructions before he could take action. All the evidence I have would rest on my unsubstantiated word, and I feel that
isn't enough.

  What I really want to do is have a sight of this mystery man Smith, who I suspect is at the root of the trouble. But he's outside your province.'

  Biggles thought for a moment. 'In view of what's happened I feel inclined to take the bull by the horns and tackle this fellow Roth at Tarracooma.

  That might stop the rot in this area.'

  'How?'

  'You could arrest him, and bring him here for questioning.' 'And make myself a laughing stock?'

  'That, I must admit, is a chance you'd be taking,' conceded Biggles.

  'It's up to you to decide whether it's worth risking your career to save some of your people out there in the blue without a thought of danger in their heads. There is, of course, a possibility that Roth, if he's a guilty party, may panic when he sees us, and do something that would warrant your picking him up. We might find something incriminating in his house.

  Anyway, it would be worthwhile if we could force him to hold his hand while I got cracking on Daly Flats.'

  Bill looked worried, as he had every reason to be. 'This is a free country,' he argued. 'A man can go where he likes and do what he likes as long as he doesn't break the law. And there's no law against talking, to blacks or whites.'

  'And that's exactly what the enemy reckons on,' declared Biggles. 'It makes his job easy and ours difficult. Well, I'm going to Tarracooma. You can please yourself whether you come or not.'

  'I'll come with you,' decided Bill. 'We could have a look at this feller Roth. No harm in that. On the way I could see what natives were on the move. Give me a minute to report Hopkins' murder and I'll be with you.'

  'What about us,' queried Algy, while they were waiting.

  'You and Bertie can come along. Anything can happen, and the more witnesses we have the better. The Otter will be all right here.'

  'How do you know you'll be able to land at Tarracooma?' inquired Bill, when he returned.

  'I don't know. But it's my guess there will be some sort of landing facility. Roth may be only a small fish in the spy outfit but his boss would want to keep in contact with him; and unless I'm off my mark his boss is Mr Smith, who has an aeroplane. Do you think you'll be able to find the place, Bill?'

  'I know the general locality. It's unlikely that there's more than one establishment there, so if we see one, that should be it.'

  In a few minutes the Halifax was in the air again, on a course a little more to the south than last time. The same sort of country lay below, although there were wide areas of absolute desert, sand or 'gibbers', the rounded stones that look as if they should be on a seaside beach. Later there were broad patches of mulga —a small tree shrub of the acacia family. From one such growth a thin column of smoke was rising. Presently Biggles noticed another, and asked: 'What's that smoke? I don't see anyone about.'

  Answered Bill: 'We call 'ern mulga wires. Or if you like, bush telegraph.

  Aborigine talk.

  Natives signalling.'

  'About us?'

  Possibly. Or about the murder. When you're on the ground everyone gets advance notice that you're on the way. But I doubt if the smoke signals can travel as fast as a plane. In the ordinary way I'd say they have no special significance; but I don't like the way the aborigines are keeping out of sight. Of course, if they know a man has been killed that could be enough to send them into hiding. They know jolly well that someone will have to pay for it.'

  The aircraft droned on. The only sign of life in the wilderness was a small mob of kangaroos.

  'We call that light scrub and sand country ahead, pindan,'

  informed Bill. 'If this Tarracooma outfit is really raising sheep we soon ought to see something of 'em. A sheep run can have a frontage of a hundred miles.'

  The Halifax droned on, bumping badly in the shimmering heat.

  Another twenty minutes passed and Bill said: `Tarracooma should be about here somewhere. It's new ground to me so I can't say exactly where it is.

  There's pretty certain to be a billabong — that's a waterhole — so if you climbed a bit higher, and circled, we might spot the light shining on it.

  Water stands out clear in this sort of country. If there isn't any natural water there should be an iron windmill working an artesian well.'

  As it turned out there was a waterhole. As Biggles climbed Ginger spotted it a long way off. He called attention to it, whereupon Biggles cut the engines and began a long glide towards it. Some buildings, made conspicuous only by the shadows they cast, came into view; and a few sheep. Then one or two aborigines appeared, running; one led two horses into a building, presumably a stable.

  'I can see wheel marks on that sand patch,' said Bill.

  'So can I — but there's nothing to show what made them,' replied Biggles.

  'Could have been a car, although they look a bit too wide for that. We shall soon see. You'd better do the talking. What line are you going to take?'

  The first thing is to have a look at Roth, and see how he shapes.'

  'You'll have to give a reason for calling.'

  'I'll ask him if he's had any trouble with his native boys.' 'He'll say no. Which as far as he'

  s concerned will probably be true, because he's one of the very people who's causing the trouble. At least, I think he must be. I can think of no other reason why he should be on von Stalhein's list.'

  'I shall bear that in mind,' asserted Bill.

  The range of buildings was now almost directly below. The actual house was a long low bungalow of timber and corrugated iron. Ginger thought it looked new. Certainly it had not been there very long.

  'No one's come out to have a look at us,' observed Bill.

  'They're looking all right, don't make any mistake about that,' returned Biggles, with a suspicion of a sneer in his voice.

  He landed down a rather confused line of tracks and ran on as near the bungalow as was practicable, the distance from it being about fifty yards. He switched off. They got down.

  Ginger could see natives watching them surreptitiously from the outbuildings.

  'Somebody had better stay with the machine,' decided Biggles. 'In fact, I think you, Algy, and Bertie, might both stay. You'll be able to see what happens, and you'll be close enough to step in if Mr Roth starts chucking his weight about. I don't think he will, but one never knows.'

  Bill, with Biggles and Ginger, strode on to the front door of the building; but before they reached it, it was opened, and a man stood on the threshold. The colour of his skin was enough to reveal at a glance that he was a mixed breed.'

  'Mr Roth at home?' began Bill, casually.

  'He is. I'm Roth,' was the answer.

  For a moment Bill looked somewhat taken aback. As, indeed, was Ginger, and no doubt Biggles too. Naturally, it had been assumed that Roth was a white man. That this was clearly not so put an unexpected factor into the proceedings; but there was of course no opportunity to discuss it.

  'May we come in?' questioned Bill, cheerfully, for they had received no invitation to enter. He moved forward.

  With some reluctance, it seemed to Ginger, Roth gave way. He gave the impression that he, too, had been caught unprepared — unprepared, that is, for a visit from a police officer. Had Bill been travelling on foot, or on a horse, Roth would probably have had ample warning of his approach.

  The door opened directly into what was plainly the living-room. The table was littered with dirty plates and glasses, more than one man would be likely to use at one meal. An empty whisky bottle stood amongst the debris.

  'I see you're having a party,' said Bill, evenly. 'I hope I haven't disturbed it?'

  This was spoken as a question; but Roth ignored it. 'What do you want?'

  he asked, in a guttural voice that suggested, as did his name, German parentage on the white side of his pedigree.

  'I'm calling on some of the people in the outback, to see if everything's going on all right.'

  'Why shouldn't it?'

  'One or two of 'em repo
rt a little trouble with their aborigines.'

  'No trouble here.'

  'Who have you got in the house?'

  'What's that got to do with it.'

  'It just struck me that if you've got neighbours here I could speak to them while I'm on the ground. That would save me a journey, mebbe.'

  'What visitors would be likely to come here?'

  'I don't know. You'd know better than me. I notice one of your friends has a plane.'

  Whether this was a shot in the dark, or whether Bill had mentally measured the wheel tracks outside, Ginger did not know. Bill knew the track of the Auster was six feet, for they had told him so on Eighty Mile Beach.