Biggles Makes Ends Meet

by W E Johns

  “But you think there could be another reason,” prompted Ginger.

  “Yes. Call it fear. Fear that if he gave the pirates away they’d come and get him. Put it like this. He wants the insurance money without saying why he was robbed, and who robbed him. He knows, but he’s afraid to tell. Remember, he would have to say something to account for his casualties and the state of his ship when it got back to port. He wouldn’t be likely to damage his own ship. In fact, I don’t see how he could have done, even if he had a gun. To me, the fact that he was on the ship at all implies that the trip was more than a mere pearling venture. Had he felt like a spot of pearling he could have done it nearer home.”

  “Could he have had a mutiny, or something of that sort?” suggested Bertie.

  Biggles shook his head. “Mutineers wouldn’t be so daft as to risk sinking the ship they were on. Besides, when they got home they would have talked. The crew must know the truth, but as they themselves must be involved they’re not likely to squeal.”

  “The pirates also know the answers,” put in Algy.

  “Of course. The plane and the yacht weren’t there by accident. They were there for a purpose, and that purpose was the direct result of knowing what Tidore was doing. How did they know? Through spies? If we’re going to introduce spies this may turn out to be a bigger racket than the chief suspects. Where did the plane come from? Where did it refuel? For by the time the pilot had flown out and back, a matter of nearly a thousand miles, he’d be looking at his petrol gauge.”

  Biggles went over to the big wall map. “The nearest official airfields would be Phuket, on the Malay Peninsula, or Kutaradja, on the northern tip of Sumatra. Without knowing the type of aircraft, and its endurance range, we can’t say what other refuelling stations it might reach, but we might get a rough line on them. According to Tidore the plane appeared at noon. Giving it a speed of about two hundred miles an hour it would be somewhere around two o’clock when it made its landfall. So let us say that somewhere between two o’clock and three, on May the seventh last, the day when the machine appeared, an aircraft landed for fuel in Malaya or Sumatra. There should be a record of that, and as there aren’t all that many aerodromes we might be able to trace it. That gives me an idea. I want to go first to Ceylon and have a look at Mr. Tidore to hear what he has to say.”

  “Just a minute,” put in Algy. “Are we checking up on Tidore’s story or are we looking for pirates?”

  “Both, and either one should lead to the other. I was about to say that there’s no need for us all to go to Ceylon. It might save time if we started working from both ends, and try to make ends meet, so to speak. So what I suggest is this. Algy, you take Bertie with you in the Otter and cover the airfields within reasonable range of the Nicobars to see if you can get a slant on this twin-engined pirate. I’ll run down to Ceylon, in the Halifax, with Ginger, for a say-so with Tidore. When I’ve finished with him, which shouldn’t take long, I’ll cross over to see how you’re getting on, meeting you, say, at Kuala Lumpur. We may as well keep on British territory as far as possible. We’ll make that the rendezvous. Whoever finishes first will go there and wait for the others.”

  “Okay,” agreed Algy. “That’s quite clear.”

  “Say nothing about being police, or what you’re doing, unless it’s absolutely unavoidable,” concluded Biggles. “For my part I shall ask the chief to arrange with the insurance people for me to be one of their representatives. We can work out the details while we’re getting organized. Now let’s get on with it.”

  CHAPTER II

  MR. TIDORE

  NINE days later, in fine but sultry weather, the Air Police Halifax, with civil registration markings but nothing to show its official purpose, landed on the island aerodrome of Jaffna, at the northern end of Ceylon. Having seen the tanks topped up and the machine parked in the shade, for the afternoon sun was grilling. Biggles and Ginger walked along to speak to the control officer, for it was here that Biggles had resolved to begin his enquiries.

  To his satisfaction the airport official turned out to be an Englishman named Carwell, an ex-station officer of the R.A.F., who could be relied upon to hold his tongue; for should word of his mission leak out Biggles knew that his difficulties would be doubled. He began by revealing his identity and showing proof of it.

  Carwell gave him a curious look. “It’s time somebody had a look round,” he remarked. “What goes on here is nobody’s business.”

  “What does go on?” inquired Biggles quickly.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t know that I want to know,” replied Carwell. “All I know is, there’s something going on. You know how it is in the East: 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, or is afraid to speak, and you don’t know who to trust. But I must say that no one has interfered with me and I’m content to leave things that way.”

  “I think you’re wise,” agreed Biggles. “What I’m really looking for is a line on this alleged piracy reported by a merchant and shipowner named Tidore, who lives here. It seems that an aircraft was involved; a twin-engined job. Have you by any chance had here any such types, privately owned, or not engaged on regular runs?”

  Carwell thought for a moment. “No, I can’t say I have. All I get here are the regular services. Occasionally an R.A.F. type looks in. When I say regular you mustn’t take that too literally. Things here aren’t timed to a split-second schedule. For instance, that green Dakota on the tarmac now, with Chinese markings, belongs to a privately owned concern that operates between Macao and Madras, calling here on the way. But there’s nothing regular about its arrivals and departures, although that, of course, would probably be the result of irregular bookings. There’d obviously be no sense in making the run without a payload.”

  “If it comes from Macao it’d pass near the Nicobars,” said Biggles thoughtfully.

  “Bound to. It usually calls at Saigon, Phuket, sometimes with intermediate stops, and then comes right across.”

  “And refuels here.”

  “Of course. It’s a long crossing.”

  “And then it runs up the Malabar Coast to Madras.”

  “That’s how I understand it.”

  “Is this a passenger service?”

  “Freight and occasionally an odd passenger. I don’t know who the show belongs to because the original documents are in Chinese or Japanese—I’m not sure which; but the pilot is a nice little fellow, a Jap named Mitsubu. He’s in the town at the moment.”

  Biggles nodded. “Have you ever had reason to suspect it’s anything but what it appears to be?”

  “That’s a pretty pointed question.”

  “In my business I have to ask questions.”

  “The answer is no. Its papers are always in order; it complies with regulations; it pays its landing fees, and so on, and that’s all I care.”

  “Fair enough,” conceded Biggles.

  “Are you staying long?”

  “I have a date with a man in Malaya. I may be here for a day or two; on the other hand I may decide to leave at short notice, so if you see me push off at any odd time you’ll know it’s all right. I’m going now to have a word with Tidore.”

  Carwell gave Biggles a sideways glance. “Watch how you go with him,” he advised, quietly.

  “Why? Is there anything against him?”

  “Not that I know of, but as I happen to live here I know he’s one of the men it’s better not to talk about.”

  “I see. So it’s like that,” said Biggles slowly. “Knowing who I am, and what I’m doing, could you be a little more explicit?”

  “I don’t like repeating rumours without a shred of evidence to support them.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Carwell dropped his voice still lower. “It is said he makes a bit more on the side than he does by his regular business, which is, or was originally, buying and selling rice.”

  “Smuggling?�
��

  “That’s what such whispers usually mean.”

  “Dope?”

  “Half the East lives by fiddling with dope in one way or another.”

  “Thanks, Carwell,” acknowledged Biggles. “I need hardly mention it, but I’d be obliged if you didn’t talk to anyone about me.”

  “You bet your life I won’t,” asserted Carwell. “Here, to be too friendly with the police can put you wrong in other quarters. And I have a wife and family to support.”

  “Then we’ll have a bite in the buffet and get along. I can get a car outside, I suppose?”

  “Sure. I’ll lay one on for you if you like.”

  “Thanks. And thanks for being so frank. So long.”

  “So long.”

  As they walked towards the refreshment room Biggles remarked to Ginger: “In view of what Carwell has told us I don’t suppose we shall learn much from Tidore, or from anyone else here; but it’ll be something to see the sort of man we have to deal with. No one will say a word against a dope trafficker for fear of getting his own supplies cut off.”

  They had a light lunch, very late, and then went outside to find that Carwell had kept his promise in the matter of a car. The driver, as was to be expected, was a coloured man who, when he was given their destination, gave them a second look before assuring them that they had not far to go.

  “Apparently the gentleman lives in some style,” observed Biggles, softly, to Ginger, as the car turned into a broad, palm-lined avenue, with expensive-looking houses at intervals on either side.

  The driver stopped at a pair of wrought iron gates. Beyond them a short drive curved through a garden of tropical luxuriance to a house of some size, even more imposing than its neighbours. The gates were closed. As they walked towards them having paid the driver, Ginger remarked: “With all this you’d wonder at a man taking chances by not going dead straight.”

  “Some men acquire this sort of establishment—for a time—by not going straight,” returned Biggles, dryly. “But let’s not jump to conclusions,” he went on, “More than one honest fortune has been made from tea, spices, and the other nice things this little paradise produces.”

  Reaching the gates he turned the handle. They remained closed. “Locked,” he said laconically. He turned to Ginger. “It rather looks as if the gentleman is not at home. Or if he is at home we might suppose that he’s afraid of something. I’ll try the bell.”

  Before he could ring it two white-clad coloured men stepped from behind some shrubs just inside and advanced purposefully, yet with caution. Ginger could see another man watching.

  “Well—well,” murmured Biggles. “Whether Mr. Tidore is at home or not it’s clear that he doesn’t welcome unexpected visitors.”

  “Or even expected ones,” opined Ginger.

  Said one of the men inside, curtly, without unlocking the gates, “Yes, what is it?”

  Biggles answered. “I’d like to see Mr. Tidore.”

  “Mr. Tidore not at home.”

  “Tell him I’ve come from London,” returned Biggles, evenly. “If you’ll take him one of my cards I think he’ll see me.” As he spoke he passed through the bars of the gates one of the cards he had prepared for the occasion. Under his own name it carried the title of the insurance agents.

  The Indian servant who had spoken said, “Wait,” and retired. The other watched them closely.

  They had not long to wait. The gate was unlocked. They were admitted, and a short walk ended on a patio at the rear of the house where a man, presumably the man they sought, was reclining in a comfortable chair, near a softly-humming electric fan, within an area surrounded by palms and exotic shrubs.

  As he rose to greet them Ginger considered him carefully, and with some curiosity, for there had been no indication of his appearance. He saw a man of about fifty years of age, going grey, inclined to stoutness, clean shaven, with a smooth skin the colour of pale coffee. His expression was bland, his manner one of quiet self-confidence, and his actions, when he moved, studiously graceful. He was dressed Indian fashion, immaculate, in a long dark jacket and white trousers.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, in a voice as soft as silk. “I am happy to see you. Please be seated. May I offer you some refreshment?”

  “No thanks, we’ve just had lunch,” declined Biggles, accepting a chair.

  “Some coffee perhaps?”

  “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  Ginger noticed that the two men who had let them in remained close, watching. The coffee was brought and the conversation resumed.

  “I am hoping you have come to settle my claim, Colonel Bigglesworth,” said Tidore, with a shadow of a smile.

  “It’s Mr. Bigglesworth,” corrected Biggles. “Unfortunately, no. I am not from the Claims department,” he continued. “I have come for a first-hand account of your alarming adventure, for the possibility of a recurrence of piracy is a matter of great concern to the people I represent. It was thought you might help us to trace this pirate craft.”

  “I’m sorry to say I cannot,” averred Tidore sadly. “Had I been able to do so it would have been done as soon as I reached port. The thing is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”

  “I take it that nothing of the sort has ever happened to you before?”

  “Never.”

  “Do you think it might happen again?”

  Tidore hesitated. “It’s unlikely that I shall ever go to sea again,” he said slowly. “I am getting old for such adventures.”

  “Tell me this, Mr. Tidore,” requested Biggles. “The pirates must have thought you had something valuable on board. Why should they presume that?”

  Tidore held out his hands, palms upward. “I can’t imagine—unless it was because I was myself on board.”

  “How would they know that?”

  The lids of Tidore’s dark eyes dropped a little as he turned them to Biggles’ face. “I wish I knew,” he answered in a hard voice.

  “Could your crew have talked?”

  “I do not think so.”

  “Did you actually land on any of the Nicobar Islands, or anywhere else?”

  “My men landed once or twice for fruit and water, but the islands on which they landed were uninhabited. But what is the purpose of all these questions?”

  “I’m trying to arrive at why the pirates should suppose you had a valuable cargo on board. You will agree that the attack could hardly have been a chance affair. If your men didn’t talk, who did?”

  Tidore’s eyes glinted. “I should like very much to know that.” He spoke as if he meant it, and Ginger thought he did.

  “Is it usual for you to make such long trips?” went on Biggles.

  “Not until recently, when I took delivery of my new ship, the Shima. But I repeat, what is the purpose of all these questions?” A note of irritation crept into Tidore’s voice. “Do you doubt my story?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Then why have I not received my cheque from your company?”

  “They are perhaps awaiting my report. After all, Mr. Tidore, you can’t expect insurance companies to pay out large sums of money without first satisfying themselves that the claim is justified. I have merely been asked to try to trace the people who robbed you. Naturally, I came to you first.”

  “I have told you that I cannot help you.”

  “In that case, as a matter of routine, would you mind if I spoke to the members of your crew?”

  “How do you think they could help you?”

  “They may have noticed some detail of the plane, or the yacht, which you overlooked.”

  “There is a remote possibility of that but I’m afraid you cannot see them.”

  “Why not?”

  “As there was nothing for them to do while the Shima was being repaired they have dispersed to their homes, some to India, the Arabs to the Persian Gulf.”

  “What about the man who is still in hospital?”

  “He speaks only Ta
mil, a language which, I think, you would not know.”

  “There are such people as interpreters.”

  “The man was badly wounded and is still too seriously ill to be worried by visitors.”

  Biggles’ face remained expressionless. “I see, Mr. Tidore. If that’s how you feel about it there is no point in prolonging this interview. But I think I should warn you that unless I can obtain some corroborative evidence of your statement there may be a delay in settling your claim.”

  “What else can I tell you?”

  “If you don’t know I can’t help you.”

  “I have nothing more to say.”

  Biggles got up. “Thank you, Mr. Tidore. In that case I won’t take up any more of your time.”

  Said Tidore. “You will excuse me if I don’t come to the gate with you myself but I’m still suffering from the after effects of shock.”

  “I’m sure you must be,” said Biggles, blandly, as they turned to follow the men who had shown them in.

  They heard the gates locked behind them.

  Walking down the avenue Ginger said: “Well, what did you make of that?”

  “Tidore succeeded in convincing me of one thing only.”

  “What was that?”

  “He’s a first class liar and as crooked as a corkscrew. He’d no intention of letting me talk to his crew. I only put the question to test him. I got the answer I expected. What did you make of it?”

  “I had a feeling he was scared stiff of something.”

  “Quite right. That’s why he’s guarded like a dictator. There were at least three men watching and they never took their eyes off us.”

  “So I noticed.”

  “I didn’t think we should get much change out of Tidore. He had the answers ready. He knows plenty. He knows who robbed him, and why. But he’s not going to tell us.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s scared that if he squeals the people who robbed him will bump him off. They may do that anyway if they think he knows too much. You can judge how scared he is by the fact that although I hinted he might not get the insurance money if he couldn’t find evidence to support his claim, he still refused to open up. He wants that money badly, but still more does he want to keep the breath in his body.”