Chapter 6
Biggles meets an old friend
To Ginger, the whole business was beginning to take on the character of a nightmare. "Strewth! Talk about bad luck," he muttered despondently. "I'm starting to think I'm going to spend the rest of my life on this blinking sandbank. I'm getting to the state where I could throw myself down and burst into tears - like a little girl who's lost her bag of sweets."
"Quit moaning, or you'll have me in tears in a minute," requested Biggles. "Let me think."
"Just a minute," he went on in a changed tone. "We'll drop in on O'Neilson, that chap at Vicuna that Carruthers mentioned to us. Carruthers said he had a decent radio transmitter. We could use it to get in touch with the Falklands, and let Algy and Bertie know what's going on. I'd almost forgotten about the fellow, but we should have a word with him anyway. There's just a chance that he, being both a pilot and an ex-Intelligence officer, may have noticed something that could help us."
Shortly after midday the full tide floated the Gosling off the sand and it took off, heading south for Vicuna. In not much more than half an hour's flying time the objective was in sight, and Biggles throttled back and began a long glide towards it. On reaching it, he circled it twice before lowering his undercarriage and making preparations to land.
There were two hangars, on the roof of each of which was painted, in block letters six feet high, the words "British & Imperial Pastoral Company". Adjacent to the hangars were a small square building with a tall radio mast, and a couple of other buildings of uncertain purpose. At little distance from the hangars were several large bungalows surrounded by clumps of trees and cultivated gardens, and further away was a cluster of smaller houses set out in the manner of a village. To the south of the airstrip was a massive complex of stockyards, shearing sheds, and the like. A flock of sheep were being moved into the yards by half a dozen men dressed as typical gauchos. They looked up as the Gosling flew low overhead, but continued on with their work. Two roads led away from the little settlement; one to the west, which presumably connected to the main highway running north-south down the Argentinian coast; and the other to the east, towards the sea, which appeared to be no more than a couple of miles away. The roads, although unmade, appeared to be in good condition, and the whole place had an air of prosperity and order.
"This looks to be a pretty big place," commented Ginger, with some surprise. "It's practically a small town."
"I would expect it to be. There's probably more than a million sheep on this property," replied Biggles. "After all, it is the headquarters of one of the biggest pastoral outfits in South America. I imagine that there are quite a number of employees stationed here, apart from O'Neilson."
A Dragon Moth was parked just outside one of the hangars, and a couple of mechanics wearing overalls appeared to be giving it a top overhaul. They stopped work and stood staring upward as Gosling came in to land. They were joined by another man who came out of the radio building. Biggles dropped his wheels, put the machine down, and taxied right up to the little group that stood watching.
Standing slightly in front of the two mechanics was the man who had come from the radio building. He was a small, slim, keen-faced, sun-burned fellow whose most outstanding features were a head of close-clipped red hair, and bright, almost brilliant blue eyes. Their colour may have been emphasised by the hair, but Ginger thought he had never seen eyes so piercingly blue. At the sight of Biggles he flashed a smile of instant recognition.
"Well, by the sainted turnbuckle of Saint Patrick, if it isn't Pat O'Neilson! Hullo, Pat!" exclaimed Biggles.
"Hullo Biggles! What brings you to this part of the world? I'd heard you'd gone back into the Service," replied O'Neilson.
Biggles glanced swiftly at the mechanics, who were still standing idly by watching proceedings, and answered loudly. "Who told you that?"
"Sandy Macaster. I ran into him one day in Sandiago - oh, it must have been the best part of twelve months ago."
Biggles made a gesture of disdain. "Oh, Sandy. He always did get things tangled up. I've no intention of aviating aircraft decorated with the red-white-and-blue target. At the moment I'm beetling down the coast of Argentina doing photographic reconnaissance work for an oil exploration outfit. This is Ginger Hebblethwaite, a young protege of mine. Tell me, how long have you been out here?"
"Since 1936. I chucked in the Intelligence business when my health gave out. I had a spell in the London Hospital for Tropical Diseases and the doctors told me to keep out of hot climates. I drifted around for a while, and then came out here to visit a cousin and landed this job. I got married last year, to an Argentinian girl," replied O'Neilson. "I'll introduce you to my wife, Consuelo. You'll join us for lunch, won't you?"
"Would it be possible to have my machine refuelled first?" questioned Biggles. "We've got less than a quarter of a tank left."
"Of course," replied O'Neilson. "I'll give instructions for it to be done straight away."
He spoke briefly to the mechanics in Spanish. Turning back to Biggles, he continued, "It's good to see you again, Biggles. Although there's quite a British colony here, we don't often get visitors from England. As a matter of fact, you were lucky to catch me. I've been away for a week, flying a couple of the directors who were out from England around the country to inspect my firm's various properties, and then back to Buenos Aires. I only came back home a couple of days ago - I just missed that nasty storm. Did you get caught up in it? I imagine it was solid fog from the Coig River to San Julian. Everybody's talking about you, of course."
Biggles threw a sideways glance at Ginger. "Really! What do you mean?"
"Oh, people have been asked to look out for two British airmen in an American Gosling amphibian. I was told you had headed south, and hadn't landed anywhere along the coast, so there were concerns you might have run into difficulties. Anyone seeing the machine was requested to let the authorities know," was the casual reply. "I sent off a message as soon as I recognised your machine."
Biggles frowned. Observing that the mechanics were now busy refuelling the Gosling, he spoke quietly to O'Neilson. "I'd rather you hadn't sent that signal. Is there a place where we can talk confidentially?"
"Yes, come on over to the house," was the slightly puzzled reply.
O'Neilson led them towards the nearest of the bungalows - a long, low, rambling white-painted building - through some attractive gardens. Ginger recognised many familiar English plants but others he had never seen before. There were fruit trees, too, some of the commoner sorts, and others unknown to Ginger. However, the whole effect was delightful. It was also clear, when they reached the bungalow, that some trouble and expense had been taken to make the large reception room into which O'Neilson showed them really attractive. The room was furnished in simple but impressive style, some fine old mahogany in the Spanish style being much in evidence, and yet the apartment had a cosy, lived-in appearance. Everything was beautifully kept, and a huge vase of white flowers made a spectacular display on an old polished chest which reflected their pristine beauty. A grand piano occupied a corner of the room.
"Sit down and make yourselves comfortable," invited O'Neilson, pushing forward a box of cigarettes.
"You seem to do yourself very well here, if I may say so," murmured Biggles, looking about him appreciatively as he settled himself in his seat and took a cigarette.
"It's all Consuelo's doing. She's a wizard! She can cook, too," declared O'Neilson enthusiastically. "Hebblethwaite, you're too young to think seriously of marriage, but what about you, Biggles? Isn't it time you packed up chasing yourself around the globe and settled down?"
He continued slyly. "I could introduce you to Consuelo's sister."
Before the conversation could go any further in this direction, a tall, dark and strikingly handsome young woman entered the room. The necessary introductions were performed, and Mrs O'Neilson, in charmingly-accented although limited English, repeated her husband's invitation to lunch. Biggles expressed himself to be delighted to accept, whereupon Mrs O'Neilson excused herself from the company to attend to the preparations for the meal.
As soon as she had left the room, Biggles turned to O'Neilson and said, quietly, "I'm going to take you into my confidence, Pat, knowing that you'll respect it, even if you're not able to help me. The truth of the matter is, Hebblethwaite and I are here as British agents, on a special mission."
"I think you'd better tell me the whole story," suggested O'Neilson.
"Certainly," answered Biggles willingly, and he related the reason for their being in Argentina, and the events that had occurred since their arrival in Buenos Aires. He spoke succinctly, but without omitting any relevant detail. He concluded by saying, "My biggest worry is that since there was no-one on the spot to meet him this morning, Algy will get into a flap. You've been good enough to fill up our tanks for us so we don't need to rendezvous with the flying-boat, but you know Algy; if we're not there to send him home he's likely to go on to Buenos Aires. I need to get a message through to him to stand by for further orders - but this is an awkward situation. The Argentinians are obviously looking out for us, and I wager they'd be delighted to get the chance to cause a diplomatic row. You could get caught up in it, and I should hate to see you lose your job through trying to help us."
"Rot! Never mind about that; we're bound to stick to each other," replied O'Neilson. "If one Britisher can't help another in a case like this, it's a poor show. You write out your message and I'll see that it's transmitted right away. Are you using code?"
"No," Biggles shook his head. "I wouldn't risk carrying the British code book around with me. I imagine the Nazi government would be only too pleased to pay a million pounds for our latest secret code at the moment. I'll get Ginger to send the message, if that's all right with you. The fewer people who know about this the better - and your staff are bound to talk. Ginger, do you mind slipping back to the airstrip and using O'Neilson's radio to send a message through to the Falklands? Just let Algy and Bertie know to stand by for further orders. At this stage I feel inclined to keep on. We'll look around a bit more, and then come back here for another lot of fuel. We can work out our next step from there."
"Okay, chief," responded Ginger obediently, getting up.
"Thanks, Ginger," acknowledged Biggles. "Keep it short and sweet; unfriendly ears may be listening. No chatter."
"By the way, how much fuel do you keep here?" asked Biggles casually as Ginger left the room, lighting another cigarette.
"I always keep at least a thousand gallons on hand, most of it in drums and some in four gallon tins," was the reply. "I'm planning to get a proper underground tank installed soon."
Biggles looked surprised. "That's a lot of petrol."
"Not really. I do quite a lot of flying. We have a crack team of shearers here - I fly them around the different properties in the shearing season. The Company's chief engineer and veterinary surgeon are based here as well, and I run them around a bit. I've got a Gypsy Moth for that sort of thing, as well as the Dragon. This is quite a good job, you know - better than aviating a lot of ham-fisted pupils through London fogs! And it's no trouble to get petrol here in bulk, as most of our supplies come by coastal steamer. You might have seen the road running east? It goes to the company's jetty."
"Could a marine aircraft land there?"
"Easily. There's plenty of room to get down, and the jetty is in a nice protected little bay."
"By jingo, Pat, you're a useful fellow," declared Biggles. "It's handy to know that Algy could land not far from here if it was necessary. Now, tell me if you've noticed any unusual activity in the air around here lately. From what I've seen and heard, there's not much aviation in this part of the world, so anything out of the ordinary could put us on the trail of the diamonds."
O'Neilson shook his head. "I've seen nothing unusual. You're right; there isn't much aviation around here, particularly since the Aeronavale pushed off from Puerto Guano a few months ago. I see a few small machines around from time to time, but I know them all – they're mostly members of the aero club at San Julian. The only machine that I see regularly is the Dragon Moth that does the mail run from San Julian down to Rio Grande, but it can't have anything to do with this diamond smuggling business. There's been a machine on that run for as long as I've been here."
"No doubt you're right," agreed Biggles. "From what you say it's not likely that the Dragon Moth is what we're looking for."
"By a bit of a coincidence, that Dragon Moth is the twin of the machine I use," continued O'Neilson. "They were both imported by a charter company which went broke about six months ago. I picked up one of them, and the Argentine Air Ministry bought the other. Being imported at the same time, they've got serial registration numbers. Mine's AL-HRU, and the other one is AL-HRV. People are always getting them confused if they happen to be on the tarmac at San Julian at the same time."
"I suppose the machine must cause a bit of confusion here as well from time to time - it must come pretty close to Vicuna on its way to Puerto Guano."
"No, I don't believe it has, as a matter of fact. Certainly, I've never seen it near here. But I know it gets into Puerto Guano on Thursday afternoons. We often send a truck down to Puerto Guano on a Friday to pick up any mail, and a few supplies."
"That's odd," remarked Biggles. "The Dragon Moth leaves San Julian on Thursday morning but doesn't get to Puerto Guano until Thursday afternoon. It shouldn't take all day to fly from San Julian to Puerto Guano."
O'Neilson shrugged. "I haven't thought about it. I know the machine stops off at Santa Cruz, which is roughly half-way between San Julian and Puerto Guano. You know Latin Americans, or you should by now. Although the climate down here doesn't justify a siesta in the afternoon, they'll take one if they get the chance. I assume the pilot takes a long break for lunch and a nap afterwards."
"But is the pilot an Argentinian?"
"I don't know. The Air Ministry put a new man on when they got the Dragon Moth. I don't even know his name. He's a surly fellow. I've tried a couple of times to get into conversation with him. Come to think of it, I don't think he is Argentinian. Certainly not a native-born Argentinian."
"Could he be a German?"
O'Neilson looked startled. "Yes, judging b y his appearance and the way he speaks Spanish, I believe he could be," he replied.
Biggles sat for a minute, watching the grey thread of smoke that rose from his cigarette to the ceiling. Then he said pensively, "It seems to take a deuce of a long time for that Dragon Moth to make a flight of not much more than five hundred miles. It also seems that it doesn't fly a straight course, either, or it would pass somewhere near here, and you would have seen or heard it. It's possible that when it leaves San Julian, it goes somewhere else and picks up a load of diamonds before landing at Puerto Guano. If the machine is flown by a German ... well, I should say that's pretty much conclusive evidence that something fishy is going on. And the fellow who's in charge of the German operation is a cunning blighter. It would be like him to come up with a stunt like this to hide what he's doing."
"There's something else, Biggles, that comes into the picture," said O'Neilson eagerly. "What goes on at Puerto Guano is nobody's business."
"What does go on?" inquired Biggles, stubbing his cigarette.
"I don't know," replied O\rquote Neilson. "I've landed there twice in the past four months, and I got the feeling that I wasn't welcome. All I know is, there's something going on. You know how it is in these tinpot little places in Latin America: you can smell something in the atmosphere but it's hard to put your finger on it. You get a feeling that everyone's lying and you don't know who to trust. But I must say that no one has interfered with me and until now I've been content to leave things that way. As you know, I've got a wife to support these days, and we're hoping to start a family soon."
"By thunder, it looks like something's cooking at Puerto Guano, and something with a nasty smell at that," declared Biggles. "I think we'll push off straight after lunch and have a look at the place. I'll come back and let you know if we find anything. I'll need to use your radio, anyway, to give Algy the gen."
At this point Ginger returned, and told Biggles that he had sent a brief message to the Falklands and received an acknowledgment. Almost immediately afterwards, a servant appeared to inform them that lunch was served. Biggles and Ginger followed O'Neilson out of the room into an adjoining one, furnished as a dining room, where lunch had been laid for four on a handsome old carved table. Mrs O'Neilson was waiting for them, with a welcoming smile.
Lunch was a pleasant affair. The food was excellent, and the conversation, conducted in both English and Spanish, was lively. While Biggles was impatient to be going, it was after three o'clock before he finished his coffee. As soon as he could politely do so, he thanked his hosts for their hospitality, promised to return within a couple of days, and rose to his feet. A few minutes later the Gosling's engines split the silence with their powerful bellow, which faded away to a rhythmic murmur as the pilot throttled back to allow them to warm up. For a moment they sat thus, then Biggles thrust the throttle open and the Gosling swept across the aerodrome, leaving a swirling trail of dust in its wake.