Читать книгу Biggles Flies Again - W E Johns - Страница 4
II
ОглавлениеIt did not greatly surprise him therefore when, the following evening, the Agent confirmed it.
“Yes, Bigglesworth,” he said, “the Company went into liquidation more than three months ago—and that is all there is to say,” he added, with an air of finality.
“Is it?” said Biggles, eyeing the little pock-marked mulatto grimly. “Who told you it was? What about our pay?”
The man made a gesture more eloquent than words.
“I see,” said Biggles slowly; “the money dried up, eh? You knew that; you knew that we were stranded up on that hell-bound, fever-smitten coast, yet you hadn’t the decency to send word that you were not sending a boat.”
“You would hardly expect me to stand the expense of that myself——”
“No. Having seen you, I wouldn’t,” replied Biggles, breathing heavily. “Did you pay our last cheques into the bank?”
“Yes, but——”
“Come on; but what?”
“Unfortunately there was not sufficient credit at the bank to meet them. They were returned; I have them here.”
“What about your own—was that met?”
“Well, yes; you see, being on the spot——”
“You were able to keep ours back until yours was cleared, eh? Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“Do about it?”
“Don’t pretend you’re a blooming parrot; there’s enough outside; you heard what I said. How are we going to get home?”
“I guess that’s your own affair,” replied the Agent brusquely, turning to some papers on his desk as if the interview was closed.
“Then you’re a darn bad guesser,” snarled Biggles, taking off his jacket.
“What are you going to do?” cried the Agent, in alarm, turning pale under his yellow skin.
“That’s what I asked you,” said Biggles harshly.
“What do you want me to do?”
“As far as I can see there’s only one thing you can do,” replied Biggles through his teeth, taking a pace forward, “and that is to make over that machine in the harbour to us in lieu of pay.”
“Preposterous! I have no authority——”
“To blazes with authority; you’ve got a Company stamp. Get busy and date the deed the day before the Company filed its petition; your clerk can witness it. If you don’t,” went on the pilot, clenching his fists, “I’m going to give myself the satisfaction of tearing your dirty little gizzard out of your neck and throwing it outside to the dogs.”
The Agent opened his mouth to speak, looked up at the airman’s face, changed his mind, took up a sheet of headed notepaper, and wrote rapidly.
Five minutes later the pilot, with the deed in his pocket, made his way back to the harbour, where Algy and Smyth were busily engaged scrubbing down the amphibian.
“Company’s gone broke; there’s no money, but we’ve got the boat,” he told them briefly.
“What’s the use of that; are you thinking of flying it back non-stop to London?” sneered Algy sarcastically, mopping his face with an oily rag.
Biggles shook his head. “It was that or nothing,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “We might, by giving joyrides, work our way up the coast to New Orleans or across to Jamaica, where we could sell her for enough to pay our passages back.”
“Jungle Airways Limited, Joy Rides for Niggers, Flip-Flaps for Cannibals,” grinned Algy.
“That’s about it,” agreed Biggles. “Can you think of anything better?”
“No, unless we can borrow that.” He nodded towards a spick-and-span white-painted steam-yacht that swung at anchor a hundred yards away.
“Let’s talk sense,” said Biggles impatiently. “We’ve enough money for some petrol and handbills to give us a start; we’ll see about it tomorrow.”
“Pardon me, gentlemen!”
Biggles swung on his heel to face the speaker, and then stared at him curiously, for at first glance it would have been difficult to guess the nationality of the man who had interrupted their conversation. He spoke English like an American, but with the halting lisp peculiar to the Oriental; his face, wide and rather flat, was dominated by the eyes, which were small and dark—beady, as Algy afterwards described them—like those of a doll, but brilliant in their intensity as they flashed from one to the other of the three airmen.
“Yes, what can I do for you?” asked Biggles civilly.
“You are pilots of the airplane, eh? I should like to speak with you privately,” was the quickly spoken reply.
“Go ahead,” replied Biggles; “we’re the pilots and we’ve plenty of time.”
“But not here,” replied the man, glancing around. “Follow me,” and, turning, he hurried away down a side street.
“What a queer fish,” muttered Algy; “but we might as well hear what he has to say.”
Their new acquaintance was evidently a believer in the old adage “Walls have ears”, for, contrary to their expectations, he did not stop at any of the small eating-houses, but disappeared behind a clump of tree-ferns on the outskirts of the town, where they found him awaiting them. It struck Biggles that he seemed nervous and ill at ease, for it was some moments before he could find words to begin.
“You are Englishmen, eh?” he said at last.
“We are,” replied Biggles. “Is that what you wanted to tell us?”
“I think you are to be trusted,” muttered the man, ignoring the mild sarcasm. “Listen; I have a secret; you can help me.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Would you like gold—much gold?”
“Much! More than that if you’ve got it; it makes nice compact ballast,” grinned Biggles. “Where is it?”
“I will tell you—but not now,” was the quick answer.
“I knew there was a catch in it,” moaned Algy.
“No catch. I have map. Wrecked ship, a Drake ship on the Spanish Main, he said——”
“Who said?” asked Biggles curiously.
“Never mind—I don’t know,” muttered the man nervously, and it struck Biggles that the words “he said” had slipped out accidentally. “The ship is on the beach; could you land your airplane on a beach, eh?” he continued, looking anxiously at Biggles, whom he evidently assumed to be the leader of the party.
“We could,” agreed the pilot.
“Good! We will go shares, one half for me and one half for you three, eh?”
“That’s fair enough,” nodded Biggles. “Where is it and when do we start? There’s no sense in letting it get rusty.”
“I will show you in the morning—I shall be with you.”
“In the morning?” echoed Biggles in surprise. “How far away is this yellow dross?”
“Hundred miles; perhaps little more.”
“Can’t be done,” said Biggles sadly, shaking his head. “We haven’t enough petrol and we’ve no money to get more.”
“I give money,” replied the man at once. “I give plenty money. You have gas all ready to start at dawn. Take a shovel and tools for digging.”
“Here, wait a minute; let me get this right,” muttered Biggles. “You know where some gold is hidden in an old wreck?”
“Yes—yes.”
“You’ll give us half if we fetch it——”
“No—all fetch it; I come too.”
“All right. If we get this gold we split it two ways; you pay expenses and we’ll be ready to start at dawn. Is that it?”
“Yes, exactly, but keep secret; other people are on the trail. But how do you say—first come, first serve, eh?”
“Certainly. That is, supposing this job’s on the level,” said Biggles earnestly, looking the man straight in the eyes. “I’m not doing any bank-busting or bootlegging.”
“No, no, all square. Here, take this; be ready at dawn. Bring tools and food. We may be one day or two.” He thrust some notes into Biggles’s hand and hurried away towards the town.
“Tell me,” murmured Algy weakly, “am I dreaming or do we start on a treasure-hunt tomorrow?”
“We do,” grinned Biggles, “and we may never get another chance. I’m not altogether infatuated with this customer; he looks a bit queer, but it struck me that he knew what he was talking about. Come on, though; let’s see about getting the petrol; it’ll be dark in half an hour.”
