Biggles - Air Detective

by W E Johns

  The Air Commodore looked dubious. “According to your theory, if you have to go down you’ll be in the Rio de Oro. You’d never get out alive.”

  “I’ll make provision for that by having Ginger waffle along behind me in another machine. If I go down he can pick me up—or at any rate he’d know exactly where I was. Don’t worry about that angle. If the plan is okay with you I’ll fix the details.”

  “Good enough,” agreed the Air Commodore. “Where are you going to land when you get to the coast? You can’t very well use the Sultan’s airfield at Masdu.”

  “Is there anywhere else?”

  “There’s Kunali, the airfield the Sultan used before Masdu was cleared. There’s no one there now. It’s about twenty miles away.”

  “That should suit us,” declared Biggles. “You might have some petrol sent there.”

  “All right. I’ll come out with you and fix things up.” The Air Commodore smiled bleakly. “It’d be funny if we were barking up the wrong tree all the time.”

  “It wouldn’t be so funny if we were barking up the right one and did nothing about it,” asserted Biggles.

  On the morning of the seventh day following this conversation with the Air Commodore Biggles stood at the entrance of a dilapidated hangar on Kunali airfield, surveying without enthusiasm the arid airstrip and the jungle that surrounded it. When, presently, Ginger joined him, after a glance at the sky he remarked: “It looks like being another scorcher.”

  “Which means that the atmosphere over the desert sector is going to be more than somewhat choppy,” observed Ginger.

  “If we have nothing worse than bumps to deal with that’ll suit me fine,” averred Biggles.

  “It’ll be a silly sort of anti-climax if nothing happens after all,” opined Ginger.

  “It’ll be the sort of anti-climax that I like,” returned Biggles. “If Rocky shows up one of us is going to collide with something solid, and whether it’s covered with jungle or sand won’t make much difference. Keep well above and behind me—unless Rocky looks like getting away with it. According to the Air Commodore’s information this chap Laroula is a good pilot. But there, Rocky wouldn’t be likely to employ a nitwit. Here comes the Air Commodore now. I imagine he’ll have the latest gen from the palace.”

  The Air Commodore, driving the Governor’s car, pulled up and got out. “Are you all set?” he asked.

  “Ready and waiting to see the back of this blistering hothouse,” Biggles told him. “Have things gone all right at your end?”

  “As right as I can make them,” replied the Air Commodore. “The Sultan knows nothing about what’s going on. As far as he’s concerned everything is normal. He’s taking off, with his son and his box of rocks, at nine o’clock; but according to the story circulated he’ll be leaving the floor at eight. The rumour is pretty general by now, so Rocky should have heard it.”

  Biggles nodded. “That’s fine. I’ll move off at five minutes to eight, circle Masdu, and set a course for home. Ginger is coming along behind. If Rocky hasn’t turned up by the time I reach Morocco I shall turn back and watch the Sultan until he has crossed the coast. After that he’ll be safe. As there will then be nothing for me to do I shall probably look in at Gibraltar and refuel.”

  “That’s about all we can do,’’ said the Air Commodore. “See you later—I hope.” He got back into his car and drove off.

  Biggles looked at his watch. “We might as well get mobile,” he told Ginger. “Don’t follow me too closely. I shall grab some altitude between here and Masdu and then head due north. Let’s go.”

  Ten minutes later Biggles’s Mosquito raised a wall of dust as it sped across the airfield and into the air. The palace, and the native town near to which it stood, were soon in view. He did not actually fly over them, but, making a detour, picked up his course on the far side. At an altitude of five thousand feet he put the machine on even keel at cruising speed and settled down for the long run ahead.

  Above, the sky was a dome of unbroken blue. Below, the scene was a monotonous expanse of forest stretching to the horizon, with a miasma of mist still hanging over the depressions. Here, he felt, there was nothing to fear, for a falling machine would disappear as utterly as a stone dropped in an ocean. Even so, he began a methodical scrutiny of the air around him, above and below, studying it closely section by section and paying particular attention to the glare that marked the position of the sun. Far above and behind, a tiny spot against the blue told him that Ginger was on the job. For nearly three hours these conditions persisted. For this he was prepared. But when, far ahead, a line of what appeared to be burnished copper crept over the edge of the world his body stiffened slightly as his muscles braced themselves for swift action. The most notorious and least known of all deserts was at hand. Rio de Oro. River of Gold. Who had put the word river into the name of seventy-three thousand square miles of waterless desert he did not know; but it must, he thought, have been someone with a grim sense of humour. Any gold other than the superheated sand was likely to remain. So would an aircraft forced down in it. Yet if his reasoning had been correct it was here that the American crook and his Mexican pilot would make their bid for the Sultan’s diamonds... if that was the purpose of their visit to Africa.

  The area of gleaming sterility became broader as it drew nearer. The tropical forest that had for so long been passing below began at last to break down into little islands of scrub, sparse and sun-scorched, with odd trees, their feet in the yellow tide, wilting like tired sentinels.

  Biggles stared long and steadfastly into the world of blue above him, to the east, and west, and the direction from which he had come. He could see nothing but the eternal blue, fading to steely grey where it met the horizon. Where was Rocky? He should soon show up if he was coming. He throttled back a trifle to give him an opportunity to overtake should he be coming along behind. The sooner the suspense was over the better, he decided.

  Twenty minutes passed—long minutes they seemed to Biggles, whose nerves were keyed up, knowing that death might strike at any moment. Nothing happened, except that the aircraft began to rock in the heat-distorted air. The engines droned their tireless dirge. Above, the implacable sky remained unchanged. Below, the waste of sun-blasted rock and sand moved slowly past as more came into view.

  It was a movement on the sand that told him that his vigil was at an end. A shadow, some distance to the right, caught his eye, a broad black mark where a moment before there had been none. He watched it and saw that it was moving, moving at the same pace as himself. That told him everything. He was no longer alone in the sky. Another machine was there, flying level with him, between him and the blazing orb of the sun. It could not, he knew, be Ginger, who would not depart from his orders to remain in the rear. With the sun now high, his shadow would be almost directly underneath him.

  Pulling down his dark glasses that he wore for the purpose, Biggles altered his course slightly and, half closing his eyes, tried to probe the glare. It was not easy, but he caught a glimpse of a dark spot that seemed to be coming nearer. Instead of straining his eyes trying to follow it, he watched the shadow on the ground, knowing that from its movements he would be able to judge what the machine was doing.

  Five minutes passed, a period during which the relative positions of himself and the shadow on the ground remained unchanged. What was Rocky doing? For what was he waiting? Then, glancing down, he understood. Below him was a chaos of broken rocks on which it would be impossible for a machine to land. Ahead was a reasonably flat plateau of sand. He smiled grimly. So Rocky was merely saving himself the trouble of having to walk some distance to his victim. The plateau would obviously suit him better.

  Biggles, with his eyes never moving from the shadow, waited, and while he waited he found himself pondering on a situation outside his experience. It was more difficult than war flying, when the enemy is known, his machine marked, and is fair game to be attacked on sight when met. Here, the other machine could not be accoun
ted an enemy until the pilot had enjoyed the advantage of striking the first blow—a blow that might prove fatal. This waiting to be struck before he dare strike back was more than distasteful, particularly as Biggles was anxious to get the business finished. But he could do nothing until the other man had made the first move.

  He tried to think of some way to force the issue, but the only plan he could devise was to increase his speed as if to cross the danger zone as quickly as possible. As it happened, this had the desired effect. The shadow moved swiftly, and at the same time altered its shape, thus revealing a change of position; and Biggles’s expression hardened as he realised fully for the first time that had he not been aware of what was going on, or had the Sultan been flying the machine, he would have no hope of escape. What Rocky intended was plain, cold-blooded murder.

  Well, Biggles was ready. It was no longer necessary to watch the shadow, for the other machine, having moved out of the sun, was now in plain view, perhaps a quarter of a mile to his left and slightly above him. He recognised the type, and knew that Laroula was watching him from his cockpit. It was on the Cobra that Biggles now kept his eyes, his left foot resting lightly on the rudder-bar and his right hand firm on the control column.

  Suddenly the nose of the Cobra tilted down; it swung round to cover him and he knew that the moment had come. His left foot kicked hard. The result was a wild skid that brought his nose round without appreciably altering his line of flight. His body was pressed by centrifugal force against the side of the cockpit; but the ultimate effect was to cause the tracer bullets intended for him to stream harmlessly past the tip of his port wing.

  Biggles did not dally in his response. Once more he was a war pilot. The other man was his proven enemy in a deadly game that two could play, and he had no compunction about retaliating. Indeed, he went to work with zest, for there was a personal element about this that was absent from normal combat, when each man is fighting for his side. Cordova was just a crook, actuated solely by personal gain.

  Biggles’s nose went down, with the throttle wide open; and as he went down he turned. Straight under his opponent he went so fast that Laroula must have wondered what had become of him. He, too, turned slowly, presumably looking for him; but by that time Biggles was in the eye of the sun, already coming back. As the Cobra floated into his sights his guns spurted, and it was with grim satisfaction that he saw the burst go home. The Cobra appeared to stagger under the impact.

  Never were tables more well and truly turned. Laroula, who had come prepared to slay a sheep, must have been shocked to discover that he had struck at a tiger. No doubt it was due to this that he made only an amateurish attempt to save himself, although, admittedly, Biggles did not give him time properly to recover. The Cobra was still weaving helplessly, with its pilot looking for his opponent, when Biggles struck again, from behind, and that, for all practical purposes, was the end. The Cobra went into a steep sideslip towards the ground, trailing petrol vapour as if its tanks had been holed; and had Laroula gone on down there is just a chance that he might have reached the ground alive. But he must have completely lost his head—or so Biggles afterwards opined. Recovering from the first shock, and actuated possibly by a desire to hit back, the Mexican suddenly pulled up his nose in a climbing turn and fired at where he supposed his enemy to be.

  The result was instantly fatal. As the tracer swept through the vapour trail that he himself had made there was a vivid flash of flame—which, it may be said, gave Biggles a fright, for following the machine down he was uncomfortably close to it. He sheered off abruptly. By the time he was clear, and able to look down, the Cobra was cartwheeling in a mass of flames across the River of Gold that had in truth become a stream of death.

  Biggles circled, but did not land. Knowing that no one in the machine could have survived, he saw no point in risking his life in a rescue effort that could only be futile. For a minute or two he remained, looking down with an expressionless face at the scattered wreckage that held the remains of the man whose hobby was collecting diamonds—other people’s diamonds.

  As he turned away, a shadow fell across his cockpit and he looked up sharply to see Ginger standing by. He raised a hand and pointed to the north. Side by side the two Mosquitoes turned their tails to the scene of the tragedy and cruised on towards a more fertile land.

  The same evening British newspapers reported that His Highness, the Sultan of Lashanti, and his son, had arrived in London for the Colonial Conference. Just that and nothing more. As far as Biggles was concerned it was enough.

  [Back to Contents]

  THE CASE OF THE UNREGISTERED OPERATOR

  THE door of the Air Police Operations Room at Gatwick Airport opened to admit a heavily built, bowler-hatted man, well known by sight to Biggles. It was Inspector Gaskin of “C” Department, C.I.D., New Scotland Yard.

  “Hallo, Inspector! What crooked trail brings you here?” greeted Biggles cheerfully, pushing forward a chair.

  The Inspector sat down and mopped a broad brow with a large handkerchief. “It’s warm outside,” he commented.

  “Kind of,” agreed Biggles. “You know my boys, I think,” he added, indicating Ginger, Bertie and Algy, who were in the room.

  “I’ve heard plenty about them, anyway,” stated the Inspector.

  “What’s your trouble?” enquired Biggles, opening a box of cigarettes.

  “I’ve just been talking to your Chief, Air Commodore Raymond, and as you weren’t around he suggested that I ran down to have a word with you,” explained the detective.

  “If it’s something you can’t handle, it must be pretty sticky,” observed Biggles.

  “It isn’t that we can’t handle it, but—er—well—”

  “You’re finding the going heavy, eh?” suggested Biggles, smiling.

  “That’s about it,” admitted the Inspector.

  “Let’s have the problem, and if it’s in our line maybe we can suggest something,” invited Biggles.

  “That’s just it. I have come to the conclusion that it is in your line,” asserted the Inspector.

  “Go ahead,” requested Biggles.

  The detective cleared his throat. “A week ago Charlie Cotelli, the cracksman, was discharged from prison after a five-year stretch. That was at eight in the morning. At eight the same evening he broke into Plevington Castle and lifted jewellery worth six thousand quid. We know he did it because he has his own way of working, which marks him as plain as if he plastered everything with finger prints.”

  “So now you’re looking for Charlie?” suggested Biggles.

  “No,” answered the Inspector shortly. “That’s just it. We’re not. We know where he is. He’s in Belfast. He was there the same night, throwing his weight about in a pub in a way that suggests he was making a point of being seen. You see, if he was in Belfast he couldn’t have lifted Lady Plevington’s sparklers. In other words, he’s got a cast-iron alibi. Get the idea?”

  Biggles nodded.

  “How did he get there?” questioned the Inspector.

  “I can answer that,” returned Biggles. “He flew. He couldn’t have got there any other way in the time.”

  “Exactly. All right. A month ago, just about dusk, Joe Lasker, the smash-and-grab specialist, pushed a spanner through the window of a Bond Street jeweller and got away with a tray of rings worth eight thousand pounds. He was seen by a constable on point duty who recognised him. We got busy looking for Joe, but we had to give up because it couldn’t have been him. He was in Paris when the spanner went through the window. That’s what he’ll say, and we couldn’t give him the lie, because somewhere about two hours later he was spotted by a French agent going into a low dive in Montparnasse. Another alibi. I could give you other cases of the same sort of thing, but that should be enough. If the game isn’t stopped there’ll be more, because if there’s one thing that sticks out like a sore finger it’s this: these get-aways are being organised by somebody with brains.”

  “Not only br
ains,” murmured Biggles. “This smart guy also has an aircraft.”

  “That’s what we reckon,” said the Inspector gloomily. “How are we going to stop it?”

  “Is that what you came down to ask me?”

  “It is. You’re the only man we’ve got who knows how to chase aeroplanes.”

  “As a matter of fact, Inspector, I suspect you’ve given me a line on something that’s been worrying me, too,” asserted Biggles. “For a couple of months or more I’ve been getting reports from the Air Ministry to the effect that their radar operators have been picking up an aircraft that they are unable to trace. First it was off the east coast; then the west; and on two occasions off the south coast. We haven’t a clue as to who it is. True, I wasn’t thinking of a machine giving the underworld the run-around. The pilot, whoever he is, is breaking every rule of the Air Navigation Code and is a menace to civil machines operating on regular routes. One day there’ll be a collision, with big loss of life. Apart from which, if it comes to the knowledge of airline pilots that an unlicensed machine is tearing about the sky they’ll get the jitters. There’s nothing like the possibility of a collision to put a pilot’s nerves on edge.”

  “Huh! Well, that hooks up, anyway,” averred the Inspector. “Now I’ll tell you something else. A little while ago there was a rumour going round the shadier sorts of London night clubs that if anyone wanted to go abroad without the usual formalities it could be arranged—for a consideration. That, too, sounds like aviation. We put a stool-pigeon on the job. He’s been hanging around the night clubs for the past fortnight letting it be known that he was on the run; but so far no one has come to him with an offer of help.”