Читать книгу Biggles Flies Again - W E Johns - Страница 7

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Biggles leaned back in his chair on the patio of the Hotel Guibert, in La Paz, and watched with interest a line of grunting llamas toiling across the cobbled plaza. A mule, followed by an arriero and a string of curses, which sounded to Biggles adequate, even though their meaning was quite beyond him, threaded its way in the opposite direction. Its load was continually shifting, and constant stops had to be made to re-hitch.

“I’m glad that chap isn’t my rigger,” he observed, moodily, as the arriero halted the beast for the third time within ten yards.

The scene had become familiar, for more than a month had elapsed since they had landed on the Pacific side of the South American continent. For a fortnight they had flown Mr. Hollinger to various points of the compass on business before he departed, profuse in thanks, to the Sea Dream, which was lying at anchor off Pisco.

Biggles, remembering that Wilkinson, once “Wilks” of 287 Squadron, R.A.F., was now pilot-instructor to the Bolivian Air Force, would not hear of returning to Europe without looking him up, so after the necessary formalities had been arranged by the British Consular Agent they had flown the “Vandal” across the frontier to the Bolivian Air Force aerodrome at Alto de la Paz, to the great delight of Wilks. They had taken up quarters at the Guibert, where they foregathered each evening to discuss past exploits and future prospects.

“How are you getting on with your Spanish?” asked Wilkinson, with a wink at Algy.

“Muy bien, gracias amigo,” grinned Biggles, for he had been amusing himself by learning the language of the country. “I got on very well in the market this morning; I bought a poncho^[1] for a souvenir. By the way, what is all this talk I hear about a fellow named Estaban? I couldn’t quite get the hang of it, and when I asked people they just shut up like oysters.”

[1]	A blanket-like garment with a hole cut for the head, so that it forms a cloak; worn by the working-class in Bolivia.

“Good heavens, man, don’t tell me that you haven’t heard that Estaban Martinez has kidnapped the President’s daughter?”

“What’s she like?” asked Algy, sitting up and taking interest in the conversation.

“Consuelo Guardia has the reputation of being the most beautiful girl in Spanish America,” replied Wilkinson respectfully, “in fact, she’s a wizard,” he added fervently, with a disregard for niceties.

“Great Scott! Why hasn’t somebody fetched her back? Come on; let’s go,” cried Algy, rising.

“Don’t be a fool—sit down,” Wilkinson told him quickly, dropping his voice and glancing around. “You’ll get a knife in your back if you go around shouting like that.”

“Tell me about it,” pleaded Algy, earnestly.

“Estaban is one big brigand chief,” whispered Wilkinson, “and then some. He looks like a comic-opera star turn, but that’s where the funny stuff ends; there’s nothing humorous in Estaban’s make-up, believe me.”

“Where does he hang out?” inquired Biggles.

“That doesn’t help,” replied Wilkinson, shaking his head. “They know pretty well where his headquarters are. Look; you see the mountain over there?” He nodded towards a gigantic white peak in the distance. “That’s Mount Illimani—the Great Mother, it means, and it’s venerated by every Indian in Bolivia. Well, his place is somewhere behind there, but don’t forget those mountains roll back for about three hundred miles until they fall down in the Amazon valley. Estaban rules the district like a prince by collecting toll and ransom from travellers who have to go through the apacheta to the altiplanicia, that is, through the pass to the high sierras beyond; there are several mines up there, mostly tin.”

“Why don’t they send troops to turf him out of it?” asked Biggles, in puzzled surprise.

“Can’t be done,” said Wilkinson, shaking his head. “The British army could lose itself in those mountains and it would take another army months to find them. You can’t cross those hills without a train of llamas or mules, and Estaban would know you were on your way before you left the town. La Paz is alive with spies. The fellow has been a curse for years, but he has never tried anything on this scale before. Poor old Don Jaime, the President, is nearly off his head; he worships the girl. Estaban is asking for a ransom of two hundred and fifty thousand bolivianos and Don Jaime says he hasn’t got it; I don’t suppose he has—he hasn’t been in office long enough. He’s offered a reward of ten thousand bolivianos for the girl, and the Government has offered ten thousand for Estaban’s body, dead or alive, but they are pretty safe; they might as well have offered a million, for all the chance they have of getting him. No one could get within ten miles of his estancia. They talk about getting up a public subscription.”

“But they must have some idea, to within a mile or so, where Estaban hangs out,” returned Biggles.

“Come up to the map-room at the aerodrome tomorrow and I’ll show you to within two hundred square miles, and that’s as much as anyone can tell you,” replied Wilkinson, “but don’t you try doing anything foolish,” he muttered darkly. “An Aymara Indian couldn’t get across those hills, so it’s no use you trying.”

Biggles nibbled the end of a match-stalk reflectively. “It seems a pity,” he observed slowly.