Читать книгу Biggles of the Special Air Police - W E Johns - Страница 7

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“How would you like to undertake a treasure-hunt?” Air-Commodore Raymond, head of the Special Air Police, put the question half jokingly to his operational chief, Air Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth.

Biggles pulled forward a chair. “You can have my answer in four words. I wouldn’t like it.”

“Why not?”

“Because records show that treasure-hunting isn’t the fun most people imagine. To start with, the treasure is always in an ungetatable place. Having got there it’s usually somewhere else—that is, if it exists at all. And lastly, you can rely absolutely on at least one unforeseen snag arising to throw your plans out of gear. All most people get at the finish is hard work, with heat-stroke or frost-bite thrown in, according to locality, to make them wish they’d stayed at home. That, stripped of its romance, is treasure-hunting.”

For a moment the Air-Commodore looked amused. “This is a very unusual treasure,” he asserted seriously.

Biggles smiled sceptically. “Of course. Treasures always are unusual. Where is this particular hoard?”

“In the middle of China.”

“Exactly! What did I tell you? Why don’t people bury their stuff where it’s easy to get at?”

“The choice isn’t always theirs.”

“I suppose it’s the usual rubbish—gold and diamonds, tiaras and bangles?”

“Nothing like that. I told you this was an unusual treasure.”

Biggles became sarcastic. “It will be worth at least ten millions, for a guess.”

“On this occasion,” answered the Air-Commodore evenly, “I’d say it’s beyond price; I mean, in terms of money.”

“Who does it belong to?”

“A charming Chinese gentleman by the name of Mr. Wung Ling. He’s been at Oxford studying medicine for three years, so he speaks English fluently. I’ve asked him to come here to meet you. I fancy I hear him coming now.”

A moment later the door was opened by a constable, who announced: “Mr. Wung Ling, sir.”

Biggles’ eyes switched to the young man who entered. His face, like his name, was obviously Chinese; but that ended any association with the Orient. Everything else about him was Western. Biggles judged him to be not more than twenty.

The Air-Commodore stood to greet him, pulling up a chair. “This is Inspector Bigglesworth, who may be able to help you,” he said.

Mr. Wung Ling bowed to Biggles before seating himself.

“I would like you to repeat the story you told me yesterday,” went on the Air-Commodore. “At the finish Inspector Bigglesworth will no doubt have some questions he would like you to answer.”

“Thank you. I will do that,” answered the visitor gravely. Then, turning his chair to face Biggles, he began. “My story is really a simple one, although there are certain things that will have to be explained. As you have heard, my name is Wung Ling. That may not mean much in London, but in China it is uttered with respect, for we are an old family, old even in a country where age is reckoned in centuries. My home is, or was, at Pao-Tan, in the province of Kweichow, not far from the place where the Burma Road makes a sudden turn to the north near Chungking. There my honourable ancestors have been mandarins for more than a thousand years.

“Long ago we were very rich, but, not being men of war, when the time of trouble came we gradually lost our possessions until all that remained was our house, our temple, our most sacred treasures, and a little land. When I speak of treasure I do not mean wealth as it is understood in the West. As you may know, in China, works of art and, in particular, literature, are held in esteem beyond all things. The golden age of Chinese art began before the Romans invaded an unknown little island called Britain. I mention that so that you will understand when I say some of our art-treasures are very, very old. The great artists have gone, and the world may never see the like of them again.

“Through many centuries, then, my honourable forebears, each in his turn, collected the most beautiful things of the land in which they lived—ancient manuscripts, porcelain, lacquer and bronze work, carved ivory and jade. The value of these things could not be measured in terms of money. Gold can still be won from the earth, but if these things were lost they could never be replaced. They would be lost to the world for ever. They do not belong to one person. They belong to all people, because they represent the highest achievements of mankind, of culture, through the ages. They are the treasures not of the present, nor the future, but of the past.” The speaker paused as if to allow his words to sink in. They were spoken in a tone of voice so sincere that it was impossible not to be moved by them.

“When the Japanese invaded my country,” went on Wung Ling, “with the approach of the enemy the first thought of my honourable father was the preservation of our treasures, those of the house, and of the temple where our ancestors are buried, which stands close. I was then a small boy, but how well I remember with what reverence he wrapped each cherished piece in silk before putting it in a brass chest. He made me, his only son, help him bury the chest in the garden, digging with our hands by the light of the moon, so that should his time come I would know where it was. It is still there. I alone know where it is, for my father is now with our honourable ancestors.

“My father never left China, but he sent me to school in England to study medicine in the Western fashion, thinking that by this I might one day be of service to our suffering and misguided people. Last year he asked me to return home, for he intended digging up the chest. I went. But before this could be done the Communist invasion had started in the north and another war was upon us. The chest, therefore, is still buried. I returned to England. My father remained.

“The rest of the story I know from an old servant who, when the country fell, fled to Hongkong. He died soon afterwards. Our house was destroyed and my father died in the ruins. That is all. I know the chest must still be where we buried it that moonlit night. I do not want the things it contains, for I have nowhere to keep them. They belong to the world, and should be in safe custody where lovers of art can see them and appreciate the culture of my unfortunate country.”

Looking at Biggles, the Air-Commodore put in: “Mr. Wung Ling has made this suggestion. If we will recover the chest he will give it to the British Museum. The Museum authorities are willing to defray the expenses of an expedition for that purpose. They will also make arrangements for Mr. Wung Ling to complete his studies and qualify as a doctor.”

“That seems fair enough,” said Biggles quietly.

“In this matter of recovering the treasure,” went on Wung Ling, “you realise that with the country in a state of chaos and anarchy it would be impossible for a European to travel overland. It is likely that even I would be murdered if I tried to reach my home. Only by flying could there be any hope of success.”

Biggles nodded. “You’re sure you know exactly where the chest is buried?”

“I could go straight to the spot.”

“Would you be willing to go?”

“I would ask for nothing more.”

“What is the country like round your home? I mean, is there a place where an aeroplane could land? That’s the dominant factor.”

“For the most part the country around Pao-Tan is treeless but undulating, although there are large areas washed flat by the River Shangpo when in flood. The trees were all cut down long ago to provide the maximum arable land on which to grow food—rice, millet and barley—for a growing population.”

“What about people? Are there any there?”

“That is a question I cannot answer definitely,” admitted Wung Ling. “There were villages, of course; but war has rolled over the land, and if no crops were sown, or if they were destroyed or consumed by the soldiers, the local people would be forced to migrate or die of starvation. At the time our servants fled, a northern horde was ravaging the land, leaving devastation everywhere. It may still be there. Great areas were depopulated. This, I believe, would be the case with our territory. Rather than be slaughtered the people would go.”

“Assuming that some people are still there, would they receive you with friendliness or hostility?”

“Any old inhabitants would die for me, but for newcomers I could not speak. The only safe way would be to regard everyone there now as an enemy.”

Biggles thought for a moment or two. “There would be little risk of interference in the air, although of course I should be prepared for it,” he said slowly. “Nor should it, if you will come with us, be difficult to locate your house. But eventually we should have to land. We might find it necessary to remain on the ground for some time. That is really the crux of the proposition. It would obviously be futile to go down if hostile troops were in possession.”

“I understand that,” agreed Wung Ling. “But that is a factor that can only be determined by going there. If we saw people we would not land, in which case the expedition would be a failure—for the time being, at all events. On the other hand, if the place appeared to be deserted we could go down. It should not take long to uncover the chest.”

Biggles walked over to the wall and unrolled the appropriate map. Wung Ling joined him and at once indicated a spot with his finger. “This is it,” said he. “Here is the Burma Road. Here is the elbow where it turns north. There is the River Shangpo. My house is about here.”

“What sort of weather are we likely to encounter at this time of the year?”

“It should be good.”

“The nearest jumping-off place seems to be Hongkong.”

The Air-Commodore came over. “You may find a lot of air activity in that area,” he observed. “You’d do better to start from India and follow the Burma Road, which is a conspicuous landmark. By using the Wellington with the extra tankage you should be all right for fuel. It might take a little longer that way, but it would be safer.”

Wung Ling spoke. “Once we get to the turn of the road I know every inch of the ground.”

“All right,” said Biggles. “We’ll try it that way. When can you be ready to start, Mr. Wung Ling?”

“Whenever you say.”

Biggles turned back to the desk. “In that case I’ll see about getting organised,” he told the Air-Commodore. “There doesn’t appear to be any particular hurry. I’ll let you have details before I go; I shall probably take all my fellows with me. I may need them.”