‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Where would I be most likely to find him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know that, either. There was a time I would have said probably somewhere near the Etosha Pan, because that’s where most animals would be; but now the Pan is a Game Park, one of the places they show tourists. There is this about it. Mick Connor must know the Kalahari better than any living man. No doubt he’s still hoping to strike diamonds, but he’ll have to be where there’s game to get his skins. That’s as much as I can tell you. I haven’t seen him lately.’

  ‘You think there was a time when Browning was working with him?’

  ‘They used to come into Windhoek together, so what else could he be doing? This was before Browning went to England, of course.’

  ‘You must have been surprised when he came back here flying his own plane?’

  ‘I was. Naturally, I assumed he’d packed up with Connor. It even struck me that they’d made a rich find and gone their own ways.’

  ‘And you know nothing about Browning’s background?’

  ‘I’ve told you as much as I know. The first time I saw him was when he rolled up here with Mick Connor.’

  ‘I see. Thanks.’

  ‘There’s always a chance that he may come into Windhoek; but if you’ve any ideas of looking for him in the Kalahari, all I can say is you’ve got a job on your hands.’

  ‘Having come so far, I might as well stick around for a bit, if my machine won’t be in your way.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘Meanwhile we’ll take a walk and find quarters where we can think things over,’ decided Biggles, getting up. ‘I’ll let you know where we are. Then, if you should see either Browning or Connor, you might let me know.’

  ‘I’ll do that. But if you take my advice you’ll be careful what you say to Connor if you should see him. He has a reputation for having a hell of a temper. Remember, he’s Irish, and when he has a skinful of whisky he goes fighting mad.’

  ‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ said Biggles, as he and Bertie went out.

  ‘Well, so far so good,’ remarked Biggles as they walked away.

  ‘I don’t see much good about it, old boy,’ replied Bertie dubiously. ‘We still don’t know where this bounder Browning has gone.’

  ‘I hardly expected to find him waiting here on the tarmac,’ returned Biggles. ‘At least we’ve proved our suspicions. We know he came to Windhoek. And we know he didn’t go on to Cape Town. We’ve also learned he’s been associated with a hunter in the Kalahari, so it would be fairly reasonable to suppose he came out here to rejoin him. He would probably know where to find him.’

  ‘Does this mean we now have to start searching this perishing desert?’

  ‘Unless we’re content to sit here twiddling our thumbs for weeks, maybe for months, waiting for him, or his pal Connor, to come into the town for stores. Tomorrow, or as soon as we’ve fixed up quarters and had a rest, we’ll have a look at the country east of here: this much talked of Wilderness. If, as they say, there are wild animals, it shouldn’t be too bad.’

  ‘But here, I say, dash it all, it’s a pretty big area to start searching for an odd white man.’

  ‘We’ve more than a man to look for,’ reminded Biggles. ‘Somewhere there should be an aeroplane, which is somewhat larger, and as there can’t be many about in the Kalahari, we should be able to spot it. But before we go into details let’s find somewhere to park our small-kit.’

  They walked on.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE KALAHARI

  IT did not take long for Biggles and Bertie to find the sort of accommodation they wanted, and having settled in, decided to have an easy day while the Merlin was given a top overhaul. The following morning found them in the air with no other immediate object than to make a preliminary reconnaissance to see the country and pick out useful landmarks.

  There had been one incident. As they were about to leave the hotel for the airport, they had a visitor; a suntanned young man dressed in the dark blue jacket and light blue trousers of the South African police. Having queried Biggles by name, he said: ‘I’d like a word with you if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ invited Biggles readily.

  ‘We heard you’d arrived and it didn’t take us long to find you. Things being as they are, we like to know what strangers are doing,’ explained the police officer. ‘People give all sorts of reasons for coming to our part of the world, and those they give are not always the true ones.’

  ‘I understand that,’ Biggles said. ‘How did you know we’d arrived in Windhoek?’

  ‘From Mr. Grey.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘The Airport Manager. He lets us have the list of new arrivals. It is correct that you’re detectives from London and that you’re interested in Mick Connor?’

  Biggles and Bertie showed their police papers. ‘I’m only interested in Connor in as far as I’m told he’s a friend of a man named Richard Browning. He’s really the man I want to see.’

  ‘May I ask why you’re looking for him?’

  ‘We think he may have been implicated in something that happened when he was in England recently. Have you anything against him?’

  ‘Not a thing. But we’ve had word from a private source that he’s been seen flying over the Kalahari in the plane he brought back with him. Naturally, we’d like to know just what he’s doing.’

  ‘Why not ask him?’

  ‘We would if we knew where to find him. He hasn’t been back here since he left.’

  ‘Have you any reason to suppose he’s doing something irregular?’

  ‘If he’s with Connor he might be. For some time there’s been a whisper that Connor’s been shooting game on the fringe, if not actually in, the reserve. We know he’s a professional hunter. That’s in order; but we don’t like the idea of hunting game from a plane, if that’s what he’s doing. Not even ostriches.’

  Biggles looked surprised. ‘Why the devil should he go out of his way to shoot ostriches?’

  ‘For diamonds.’

  ‘Diamonds! I don’t get it.’

  ‘Some years ago a hunter in the Kalahari shot an ostrich. Having heard that ostriches swallow pebbles to digest their food, out of curiosity he examined its crop. What he found, among other things, was a diamond. Several, in fact. That was bad luck for the ostriches. It started a new kind of diamond rush—shooting ostriches. By the time people realized that not many of the birds carried diamonds, only those that had apparently wandered into the Kalahari from where there was diamondiferous gravel, they were pretty well wiped out. However, some were left, and they’re on the increase again. Maybe it’d be easy to shoot ’em from a plane, if that’s the game.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ said Biggles thoughtfully.

  ‘Talking of shooting,’ went on the officer, ‘are you carrying guns?’

  ‘Just pocket automatics in case of emergency. We don’t expect to use them.’

  ‘Have you got permits?’

  ‘Yes. They were issued by your London office. We declared them at the airport. By the way, these Bushmen. I understand there’s nothing to fear from them!’

  ‘Oh no. They’re tame enough nowadays. They’ve learnt that white men usually have food. Give them some grub and they won’t stop eating till they’ve finished it. To them there’s only one safe place to store it—in their bellies.’ The policeman hesitated. ‘You’d better be careful, though.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’ve heard a rumour that Connor has been treating some of the natives a bit rough, and they may be in a resentful mood. If that’s true, he must be a fool and may live to regret it. One day one of their poisoned arrows may come his way. The poison may be slow and take days to kill, but the end is a foregone conclusion. The stuff will kill anything from a lion to a buffalo, and there’s no antidote. Not even the natives have one. So if Connor has been throwing his weight about, he’d better watch his step; and so had you if it comes to that, should you come in contact with a tribe that has it in for Connor.’

  ‘Thanks,’ acknowledged Biggles. ‘I see what you mean. How did you get this information?’

  ‘We hear things. We have friends among the Bushmen.’

  ‘Well, I won’t pretend to be interested in Connor’s behaviour,’ Biggles said frankly. ‘That’s your affair. I want to talk to Browning.’

  ‘Why not wait here? Connor has a jeep. From time to time he has to come into town for stores. One thing’s certain. He—and this goes for Browning if he’s with him—can’t live on what he finds in the Kalahari. Only a Bushman can do that, and it takes him all his time.’

  ‘He may not show up here for some while, and we haven’t all that time to spare. The jeep, like Browning’s plane, should be easy to spot from the air.’

  ‘If you see the plane on the ground, what will you do? Land?’

  ‘Probably, if the ground is suitable. It should be. After all, as a pilot, Browning wouldn’t be such a fool as to land where there’s a risk of bending his undercart; of not being able to take off again.’

  The policeman nodded. ‘That’s true. What exactly do you intend to do with Browning if you do catch up with him?’

  ‘For the time being, as I’ve said, merely ask him a few questions. He could tell us what we want to know.’

  ‘If he’s back with Connor, as seems likely, we, too, would like to know what they’re up to. Regulations are tight on the buying and selling of diamonds. If you should see anything suspicious you might let us know. On the other hand, if we can help you in any way, just say the word.’

  ‘I’ll certainly do that,’ agreed Biggles. ‘I take it you have no aircraft for your own use?’

  ‘Normally, with road, rail and air links with important places, we don’t need a private plane.’

  ‘By the way, what’s your name if I should want to get in touch with you?’

  ‘Carter. Bill Carter. You can contact me at police headquarters.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The policeman went on his way.

  As Biggles and Bertie made for the airport, Bertie said: ‘Nice lad, that. He didn’t like to say too much, but it’s pretty clear this chap Connor is a bit of a tough character.’

  ‘It begins to look like that. He’s not an uncommon type here, I imagine. No doubt that’s why the police are armed.’

  Half an hour later the Merlin was in the air, climbing as it headed east over country that was at first under cultivation, but soon became more open and arid. Roads, tracks and an occasional settlement, became farther apart, and finally fizzled out, leaving only an apparently endless expanse of barren earth with occasional scrub that might be described as semi-desert.

  ‘So this is the Kalahari—or the fringe of it,’ Biggles observed. ‘The sort of country I dislike flying over more than most. I get the willies, imagining I hear one of the engines running rough.’

  ‘Same as you, old boy,’ returned Bertie warmly.

  ‘Well, at least we knew what it was like before we came here,’ said Biggles philosophically. ‘Keep your eyes on the ground for any signs of what we’re looking for. I’ll watch the air, in case Browning is doing a spot of aviation. Tell me if you spot any big game. It might be a guide if Browning and Connor are still seriously concerned with the skins of dead animals for ladies to drape round themselves, like people did thousands of years ago when they’d nothing else to keep out the cold.’

  Biggles settled the Merlin for level flight at a thousand feet, high enough to give a wide view, yet low enough, in the good visibility, for details on the ground to be seen and identified. Having no particular objective, he flew by compass to keep track of his position. There were in fact practically no definite, possible objectives; the largest scale map he had been able to procure before he left England offered only a blank white space with even conventional signs few and far between.

  For some time there was no sign of life of any sort. Nothing at all. No movement anywhere to relieve the monotony of the scene. Not even a smudge of smoke to indicate the presence of human beings, perhaps an odd party of Bushmen. As Bertie observed, the whole place looked dead, and ‘as flat as a bally pancake’.

  However, it turned out he was speaking too soon, as the appearance of a straggling group of ostriches was soon to testify. They took no notice of the aircraft. After that, a certain amount of game was seen, in particular in the region of some sparse, parched-looking scrub; but there was nothing to be compared with the more fertile parts of the continent. Zebra and wildebeeste were the most common animals, although even these did not occur in large herds. Once a party of deer or antelope, gemsbok Biggles thought, stared up at the aircraft. If there were any big ‘cats’ they were not in evidence. Bertie pointed out what he took to be a lion, but on closer investigation it turned out to be a hyena. A solitary jackal skulked near a heap of sun- bleached bones. Considering the area of ground covered by the plane, it was, they agreed, a thin population.

  ‘All I can say, old boy, is this,’ declared Bertie. ‘If Connor and Browning are hoping to get rich on leopard skins they’ll have to put in a lot of overtime. What beats me is, why Browning, if he has a pocketful of rubies, should come back to a dreary place like this. I could think of more salubrious spots.’

  ‘In the more salubrious spots, as you call ’em, there are likely to be more police. Maybe that’s the answer. There is this about the Kalahari. For a criminal on the run, it should at least be safe. No doubt there are more flourishing areas here than we have seen; I didn’t expect to cover twenty- five thousand square miles in one day. Animals will be within reach of water. They must know where to get a drink, otherwise they’d die. Where there is most wild life one would expect to find the Bushmen. They have to eat, too. The same with Connor, and Browning if he is with him. I don’t think we can judge the place by what we have seen so far. I’m content for the moment to have a look at it. Later on we can go farther afield, farther from the fringe of civilization. I wouldn’t expect to find Connor, or anyone else in his right mind, in this part of the desert. But we shall find them eventually. I still maintain that anyone would be clever to hide a plane, or a jeep, in this sort of country. A jeep can’t move without leaving tracks. Had there been any we should have seen them. On open ground like this they’d show up like railway lines—anyway, until there was enough wind to blow dust over them.’

  So saying, Biggles began a long slow turn to the north with the object of taking in new ground on the return journey. ‘We’ve done about two hundred miles,’ he went on, after a glance at the watch on the instrument panel. ‘We’ve still a lot of ground to cover, but by the time we get back we shall have done enough for today.’

  The plane droned on under a flat blue sky, bumping a little in the unstable, superheated atmosphere.

  ‘Don’t they ever get rain here?’ asked Bertie, looking down at the tired, parched landscape.

  ‘According to the book, at certain times of the year they can get some pretty fierce thunderstorms,’ replied Biggles. ‘Obviously they must get rain sometimes, or the whole country would die completely.’

  To record the return journey to base would be mere repetition. It is sufficient to say that nothing whatever was seen to excite their interest or curiosity. Bertie studied the ground; Biggles watched above and around; but if Browning’s Martin was in the air, it could not have been in their part of the sky, for nothing was seen of it.

  They returned to the aerodrome without incident, without trouble, a little tired but not disappointed. As Biggles remarked, it was early days yet to give up hope.

  They found one item of information waiting for them.

  It came from Bill Carter, the policeman. He had been in touch with all the airports within reach of Windhoek, Keetmanshoop and Upington to the south, and even as far as Mafeking, Mahalapye and Johannesburg to the east, but there was no record of Browning having landed at any one of them.

  ‘Unless he had a breakdown somewhere, it looks more than ever he’s on the carpet somewhere in the Kalahari,’ commented Biggles.

  CHAPTER 8

  A SHOT—FROM WHERE?

  BIGGLES was getting worried. He did not say much, but Bertie knew it. For three days the Merlin had been in the air, covering long distances on a definite plan to avoid going over the same ground twice, even as far east as Bechuanaland, all this without any sign or hint of what they were seeking. Bertie reckoned they had covered a least two thirds of the desert. It was disappointing. They had not expected to be away from home for as long as this. Any day there might be a signal from the Air Commodore recalling them, and it was provoking to have to leave a task unfinished.

  There had been pockets where a fair amount of wild life, both animals and birds, had collected, perhaps indicating a dried up spring or water-hole, although no actual water had been seen. These had been investigated from a low level in the assumption that Connor was most likely to be found where there was most game; but in the end the result had always been the same. They had seen one or two small parties of natives. Biggles had been tempted to land, thinking they might know something, but had refrained for two reasons. In the first place the ground had always been rough, which would have been dangerous, and secondly, unable to speak the Bushman language, it would probably have been a useless effort, anyway.

  ‘I’m beginning to think we’re wasting our time,’ Biggles said wearily, at the end of the second blank day.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ returned Bertie. They’re not here; or if they are, they’ve found a place to tuck themselves well out of sight. They can’t be moving about, or surely we’d have seen fresh tracks of the jeep on the ground. I can’t imagine Browning using his plane. No man in his right mind would go hopping about in an aircraft over this sort of ground.’

  They had spoken to Bill Carter at the police station. He had no suggestion to make. No word had come in of any unusual happenings in the desert. The natives knew all about aeroplanes, of course. If they had seen one they would hardly bother to report it. To them one plane was like another. Had they seen one it was most likely to have been the Merlin.

 

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