Biggles Makes Ends Meet

by W E Johns

  “Did you tell him what we spoke about?”

  “What was there to tell? When I left you I knew no more than when I arrived here, and that is public property.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Do you really want me to tell you? If what he told me was true you don’t need me to repeat it.”

  “Tell me. I must know.”

  “Very well. He told me that on the occasion when the Shima was stopped you had been to Macao where you had bought some gold which, rightly or wrongly, had been earmarked for him. The gold, he said, had been concealed in oysters. It was for that reason you had been stopped and your catch of oysters taken from you.”

  Tidore drew a deep breath. “Did you believe that?”

  Biggles shrugged. “I have no means of proving or disproving it.”

  “Aren’t you afraid to tell me this?”

  “No. Why should I be?”

  “If this story got abroad it would ruin me.”

  Biggles smiled sadly. “I imagine it wouldn’t do your reputation any good.”

  “In that case, knowing what you know, do you suppose that I would allow you to leave this house alive?”

  “That, Mr. Tidore is a threat. And I don’t like threats. Aside from that, such a remark is not in accord with that degree of intelligence I had imagined you possessed.”

  “What do you mean by that? The time has come for plain speaking.”

  “Well, in the first place you are being watched. That is obvious. It can also be assumed that I am being watched. That means your enemies know I am here. If I am not seen to leave you will be playing into their hands, for you may be sure that they will lose no time in informing the authorities of my disappearance, and the probable reason for it.”

  Tidore stared. He stared at Biggles for some seconds and then, going to his chair, dropped heavily into it.

  Biggles continued. “And having been here a second time I do not lose sight of the possibility that I have jeopardized my life with your enemies, who will almost certainly do their utmost to prevent me from leaving this island alive.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when I leave this house I shall, I hope, be in possession of certain facts which they would not like to have made public.”

  “But I have told you nothing about them.”

  “But if you are the sensible man I take you to be, you will.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because by telling me all you know you would be striking a blow at your enemies where it would hurt them most. True, you would not get your gold back, and you might not get your insurance money, but you would at least have a good chance of saving your life, which to you must be more valuable than either. To be blunt, Mr. Tidore, your enemies have you on a spot, and unless their organization is broken up you have even less chance of leaving this house alive than I have. Sooner or later they’ll get you, particularly now that they know you have been talking to me.”

  “They daren’t touch me. I have written a letter—”

  “So I understand. Don’t you realize that they must kill you in order to get that letter?”

  That the force of Biggles’ argument was not lost was revealed by Tidore’s tone of voice when next he spoke.

  “You talk of breaking them up,” he said anxiously. “How can you do that?”

  “Because I have on my side a force even stronger than theirs. You see, Mr. Tidore—I am not going to apologize for coming here as something else—but I am in fact a police officer, with an assignment to find this gang and wipe it out. If you side with me you stand to lose something. Let us admit that. But if you remain silent you stand to lose more. Now it’s up to you. You wanted plain speaking and you’ve had it. Make up your mind.”

  Under the shock of this disclosure Tidore sat still in his chair, silent, for some time, staring at Biggles as if fascinated. “You may be right,” he said at last, as if he had reached a decision. “But you still have no evidence against me,” he argued, weakly.

  “Let us not go into that at this juncture,” retorted Biggles. “Are you going to tell me what you know of the men who robbed you? If not there is no point in pursuing this discussion. I’ll get along and find the information elsewhere.”

  Tidore took a deep breath. “I will tell you all I know,” he decided, in a thin voice.

  “Please proceed,” invited Biggles.

  “I have, I confess, engaged from time to time in carrying contraband to India,” began Tidore. “At first I had the field to myself and it was easy. But in recent years there has come into being an organization the ramifications of which have grown until they extend from the China coast to the whole of India, with which I include Ceylon. They are responsible, through lascar sailors, for most of the opium that is being smuggled into England. When the lascars are caught they pay the fines. They tried to freeze me out, but business was bad, so I was forced to carry a certain amount of contraband in order to keep going until trade improved.”

  “What sort of contraband were you carrying at that time?”

  Tidore hesitated.

  “You spoke of China. Was it opium?”

  “Er—yes. But, of course, only to India and in small quantities. It does no harm.”

  “That’s a matter on which we need not argue,” returned Biggles coldly. “Please proceed.”

  “This organization, which operates an aeroplane as well as other methods of transport, has advantages made possible by an oversight at the end of the war. As you probably know, the Nicobar group of islands, nineteen in all, several of which are uninhabited, was occupied by the Japanese from 1942 to 1945. It was from there that they bombed Ceylon. When they withdrew on the capitulation of Japan they left behind an airfield and a considerable amount of stores, well camouflaged against air attack. How my competitors learned of this ready-made base I do not know, but the possibilities it offered were obvious and they took it over. The Nicobars happen to lie, very conveniently, roughly midway between Macao, where gold can be bought in the open market, and India, where there is always a keen demand for that metal.”

  “And you succumbed to the temptation of adding gold to your other illicit merchandise.”

  “Exactly, for the reason that my enemies had entered the opium trade and were swamping my markets.”

  Biggles shook his head. “Two wrongs never did make a right, Mr. Tidore. What on earth made you go near your enemies’ stronghold?”

  “The Nicobars lie across the entrance to the Malacca Strait. How else could I get to Macao?”

  “I see that. And their aircraft spotted you?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. It was a risk I had to take.”

  “Mention of Macao reminds me that there is on the aerodrome here a green-painted aircraft, with Chinese markings, registered in Macao. Would my guess be right if I said that was the machine that spotted you?”

  “You would be right.”

  “It has followed you home to finish the job and now you daren’t go out.”

  “You have the usual British way of being blunt to the point of brutality, but that, I must admit, is the case.”

  “Who is the head man of this opposition racket?”

  “I don’t know. I have never seen him. He is known to his employees as the Colonel.”

  “Does that mean he’s British?”

  “I have no idea. He is a man of mystery.”

  “It wouldn’t by any chance be the man who spoke to me this afternoon?”

  “No. He only controls operations here, in Ceylon. They call him the Count. He claims a university degree. He is efficient and ruthless.”

  “Two essential qualities for success in your line of business, Mr. Tidore. All I need to know is the name of this island base in the Nicobars, for if your enemies lost that they would have to come into the open for fuel and supplies.”

  “You would take it from them?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Very well, then. The island is....” Tidore broke off. They
waited.

  Seconds passed, but still Tidore did not speak.

  Ginger peered into the half-darkness in which the man sat. He seemed to be settling a little lower in his chair. There had been a slight sound as if Tidore had caught his breath sharply, and a rustle, but he did not connect these with the sudden break in the conversation.

  The same, apparently, with Biggles, for he said, impatiently: “Go on.”

  Tidore did not answer.

  One of the two white-clad servants who had been standing by muttered something to his companion and took a pace forward, also peering hard. He spoke sharply. He touched his master on the shoulder. Tidore slid forward and fell face downwards on the ground. Something projected from his back. With a shock that dried his lips Ginger perceived it was the haft of a knife.

  In a flash the two servants had disappeared into the house.

  Biggles moved nearly as fast. “Come on,” he rapped out, and literally leapt into the inky shadows of the tree ferns. He halted again instantly, tense, catching Ginger, who had followed him, by the arm.

  “Keep still,” he breathed.

  Not a sound broke the heavy atmosphere, now brittle with drama. There was no one on the patio except Tidore, who lay where he had fallen. The only things that moved were big white moths wheeling round the light and fireflies waltzing among the palms. Ginger’s eyes probed the darkness of the shrubs behind Tidore’s chair. Not a leaf moved. His heart was pounding. Sweat that was not entirely due to heat trickled down his face. A minute passed, the hush persisting.

  “I’m going into the house to get that letter,” breathed Biggles.

  “It’s madness.”

  “It would give us all the evidence we need. Ssh.”

  Two men had appeared like shadows on the patio. One of them bent over the body lying there. Metal chinked. Both figures glided into the house.

  “They’ve taken Tidore’s keys,” whispered Biggles. “They’re after that letter.”

  “You can’t go in now. With at least four men inside the place is a death trap.”

  Biggles did not answer.

  “Why not call the police to raid the house. They’ll get the letter,” suggested Ginger.

  “It’ll take us all our time to get out,” said Biggles tersely. “ Let’s try it. They’ll be watching. They’ll all be after us now, Tidore’s men as well as the others, knowing what we know. They’ll be after each other, too, no doubt. Get your gun handy and shoot at anything that moves. Keep close.”

  A step at a time, with infinite caution, they began moving through the shrubs that filled the gaps between the palms, avoiding places where the brilliant moon-light, filtering through the fronds, cast a maze of trellis-like patterns over everything.

  Ginger flinched as a scream split the silence somewhere behind them. It ended abruptly. Biggles did not stop. Gun in his right hand, parting twigs with his left, he groped his way forward. To Ginger, the problem of how to move quickly without making a noise was one not easily solved. They stopped sometimes to listen, but no sound came to indicate that they were not alone.

  This expecting something to happen at any moment was. Ginger thought, like waiting for a bomb to explode. The drive that led to the avenue was somewhere on their left, but it could not be seen. Not that it mattered for he knew Biggles would not risk exposing himself on it, for that would be offering a target to anyone lurking in the bushes. The gates, he supposed, would still be locked, anyway. Even in the avenue they would not be out of danger. They knew too much, and they would therefore be in peril now every moment they remained on the island.

  The unnerving part of this groping progress through the bushes was the silence. That they were not alone was certain. There were the men who had knifed Tidore. There were Tidore’s servants. What were they doing? If only someone would make a noise, any sort of noise, somewhere, it would be an indication of what was going on.

  They reached a wall, evidently the boundary of Tidore’s garden. It was a high wall, festooned with a creeper of some sort. It was impossible to see what was beyond it.

  “Let’s go over,” breathed Biggles. He started to pull himself up by the creeper, but it broke away and he fell back with a good deal of noise. For five minutes they stood motionless, listening; but the silence remained unbroken. Biggles gave Ginger a shoulder and hoisted him up. Below, on the other side, was a garden with open places splashed by moonlight. Nothing moved. Putting down a hand to Biggles, Ginger was able to help him up. They dropped on to soft ground, again to stand still, listening, eyes alert.

  “They’ll be watching the road,” said Ginger softly.

  “Of course. But these gardens are backed by jungle, and if we get into that we might blunder about for hours. We may have to fight our way out but I’m going to the road.”

  Keeping tight against the wall Biggles edged his way towards the avenue which, between gaps in palms and shrubs, could here and there be seen. Or rather, lighted windows of houses on the other side could be seen. The last few yards were breath-holding work, but nothing happened. Between them and the avenue, now, there was nothing but a low hedge of ferns with tall palms at intervals. One of these was immediately in front of Ginger and so close that he could touch it.

  An inch at a time he edged his way towards the bole and leaned against it while he surveyed the road.

  There was no one in sight, but a little further along, on the opposite side, a car showing no lights was parked on the dry grass strip of verge that occurred between the road and a narrow footpath. He regarded it with deep suspicion but he could see nobody in it. They had emerged, he observed, about twenty yards above Tidore’s entrance gates, and he inclined his body forward a trifle in the hope of seeing whether they were open or shut. They were open. He was about to withdraw when a slight movement in the shrubs on one side of them caused his eyes to focus on the spot. He made out a small, light-coloured object. Was it a flower? It was not the shape of one. As he watched it moved again, seeming to come forward a little. It was enough. He perceived it was the moonlight catching the brim of a panama hat.

  Slowly and with painstaking caution he backed to Biggles and raised a finger to his lips. Cupping his hands round his mouth he whispered: “The Count is standing just inside Tidore’s gates, twenty yards along. They’re open.”

  Biggles acknowledged the information with a nod, otherwise he did not move.

  CHAPTER V

  TIGHT CORNERS

  IN an atmosphere that is sometimes called electric Ginger waited, tense, for something to happen. Somebody must do something soon, he thought.

  A twig cracked. It was only a slight sound, but in the state his nerves were in it made him jump. Then came a muttered conversation in the darkness not far away. These sounds needed no explanation. The Count and his men were waiting for them to show themselves on the moonlight-dappled road.

  Turning his head he looked through the trees in the direction of Tidore’s house. He could see the upper windows. They were lighted with an orange glow, dull but flickering. He touched Biggles on the arm. “The house is on fire,” he breathed.

  “They must have set it on fire. An easy way to dispose of Tidore’s body and his papers at the same time.”

  “That should bring a crowd here.”

  “We should be in as much danger in a crowd as we are now. These boys use knives.”

  Biggles did not move. Apparently he had no intention of courting death by stepping on to the road.

  So there they stood while the seconds ticked past with no change in the situation.

  Ginger, finding the waiting intolerable, leaned forward again to see if the Count was still there. He drew back again instantly. The Count, with his back to the hedge, snatching quick glances up and down the road, was sidling towards them. He held an automatic half raised, ready for instant use. The panama left Ginger in no doubt as to who it was. He derived a crumb of comfort in the belief that the Count, from the way he was behaving, did not know they were there.


  By swift signals he indicated to Biggles what was happening.

  Biggles laid a finger on his lips.

  Soft footfalls announced the Count’s approach.

  A few seconds later, with his back towards them, still looking up and down the road, he appeared. Ginger held his breath as he drew level, a bare yard away.

  Biggles took a swift half pace forward. The muzzle of his gun pushed into the Count’s spine. “Don’t move,” he said softly, but succinctly.

  The Count, after one convulsive start which betrayed taut nerves, did not move.

  “One sound and you’ve had it,” warned Biggles, grimly. “If you think I’m fooling, try it. Take his gun, Ginger.”

  “There’s no need to be so dramatic, deah man,” sneered the Count, as Ginger took his wrist in one hand and with the other removed the automatic.

  “Don’t talk,” snapped Biggles.

  “You promised you’d go home.”

  “I promised nothing.”

  “I told you everything. Why did you come back here?”

  “I didn’t come. I was fetched,” rasped Biggles. “Listen, and listen hard. One man has died tonight. If there’s to be another it’ll be you. I mean that. You’re going to do exactly as I tell you—or else. I’m not particular which way it is. Keep your hands clear of your sides. Now walk into the middle of the road.”

  The Count, very deliberately, advanced into the road. They went with him.

  “Now turn left and keep walking,” ordered Biggles. To Ginger, he added, “Watch the rear.”

  In this fashion the three-man procession advanced down the avenue, keeping in the middle of the road, with Ginger guarding against an attack from the rear or from the flanks.

  “Let us go somewhere and talk, like men, instead of playing cowboy games like children,” suggested the Count.

  “This isn’t a game,” answered Biggles, sternly.

  “Then why not talk it over, deah man?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”