by W E Johns
“What’s the idea?” he asked sharply.
“The idea is I’ll take care of that suitcase,” replied Darkie crisply.
“But you—what about—”
“Okay, brother. Take it easy. Keep your mouth shut and you won’t get hurt. Start squealing and you will,” snapped Darkie viciously.
“I think you’re just the lowest type of crook,” said Biggles coldly.
“What you think won’t lose me any sleep,” said Darkie, grinning unpleasantly.
Biggles regarded him with contempt. “You never made a bigger mistake in your life. There was a moment when I could have felt sorry for you. How wrong I should have been. You’re just a cheap crook after all.” Then, raising his voice, he went on: “Okay, Inspector, help yourself.”
There must have been something in Biggles’s manner that told Darkie the truth, for he spun round. Biggles jumped in, grabbed the hand that held the gun, and bent it back over his own arm. At the same moment into the room hurried Inspector Gaskin with another plain-clothes man and two uniformed gendarmes.
The struggle was short. The automatic went off, but all the bullet did was tear a hole in the carpet. Upon this, the Inspector’s heavy fist flew out. It took Darkie on the point of the jaw and sent him sprawling.
“Try that game on me, would you?” growled the Inspector wrathfully, as he kicked the pistol aside and picked it up. Then he looked at Biggles and smiled.
“Nice work, Inspector,” complimented Biggles quietly. “You got things organised over this side very nicely.”
The Inspector indicated his plain-clothes companion. “Meet Captain Joudrier of the Sureté.”
Biggles nodded. “Glad to know you, Captain. Thanks for your co-operation.” He turned to Darkie, now in the grip of the gendarmes. “I forgot to mention that Inspector Gaskin flew over this afternoon with a suitcase stuffed with old newspapers to find a nice quiet apartment for our reception. Now I’m going back to make arrangements for your reception on the other side of the Channel.” To the Inspector he went on: “I’ll tell you where you can find the machine that brought us over. It had better stay where it is, for evidence, until our French colleagues have picked up the farmer. He’s in the gang. They’ll also be interested to know the name of the king of the black market over here. I can give it to them. I’m not much for flying strange machines, so I’ll ring my boys and get one of them over to fetch me. When you get back I’ll give you the gen on the rest of this bunch. I know where they can be found.”
“Good enough,” agreed Inspector Gaskin. “As I said earlier on, you boys certainly do work fast.”
“That’s what aeroplanes are for,” Biggles reminded him as he turned toward the stairs.
[Back to Contents]
THE CASE OF THE WOUNDED AGENT
BIGGLES signed his weekly report, closed his office desk, put the keys in his pocket and got up.
“That’s enough for today,” he told his waiting staff. “As things are now all quiet on the skyway, you lazy cloud-cops can trickle off and continue misspending your miserable lives. I’m going round to the Aero Club for a quiet evening with the foreign aviation magazines.” He reached for his hat.
At that moment the inter-com telephone buzzed sharply.
He picked up the receiver, and his eyes glanced meaningly round those watching him as he listened. “Right away, sir,” he said, and replaced the instrument.
“Seems I spoke out of turn,” he remarked quietly. “Keep your hands off the throttle till I come back. I mar need you. Judging from the Chief’s tone of voice there’s something not only cooking, but scorching.” He went out.
Two minutes later he walked into the office of Air Commodore Raymond, Assistant Commissioner of Police. He found him standing with his back to an empty fireplace, hands thrust deep into his pockets.
“Come in, Bigglesworth,” invited the Air Commodore. “I won’t ask you to sit down—there isn’t time.”
Biggles waited.
The Air Commodore drew a deep breath. “Now listen carefully,” he said. “You belong to this department. You’ve plenty to do, and I dislike the idea of lending you to anyone else. But I’m on a spot. The trouble is, you’re getting too well known, and unless I keep you locked in your own hangar you’re liable to find yourself a sort of dog’s-body for every Tom, Dick and Harry from one end of Whitehall to the other.”
Biggles smiled.
“Five minutes ago a very important person concerned with national security rang me up to know if I could recommend a pilot for an extremely urgent job calling for nerve, resource and discretion. What could I say? I couldn’t say ‘no’, because, in the first place, it would have been a lie, and, secondly, it would have implied that I had nothing on my staff but nitwits. I told him that I had just such a pilot as he needed—which he already knew perfectly well. I also had to admit that we had machines available for any class of operation.”
“Assuming that you’re talking about me, I can feel my face going red,” murmured Biggles. “Thank you. What is it that this very important person wants?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. He wouldn’t have discussed the matter over the telephone, anyway. You’d better go and ask him—that is, if you feel inclined to volunteer for the job. You can please yourself about that. It’s outside my department, so you’d be quite in order in declining. Once I start lending you someone will always be in need of a pilot.” The Air Commodore spoke bitterly.
Biggles took a cigarette from his case and tapped it thoughtfully on the back of his hand. “This chap must be hard pushed for a pilot of particular experience or he wouldn’t have come to you,” he observed. “What’s wrong with the Air Force? They’ve plenty of good pilots.”
“That’s what I told them, but he said he daren’t use a serving officer.”
Biggles lit his cigarette and flicked the dead match into the fireplace. “That gives us an idea of the sort of job it is,” he said softly. “If it’s a matter of national emergency we can’t let him down. I’d better go and see what he wants.”
“Ill take you round.”
“Mind if I use your phone?”
“Go ahead.”
Biggles picked up the inter-com. Ginger’s voice answered. Biggles spoke briefly. “I’m going out for a few minutes. Stand fast till I come back.” He hung up and followed his Chief into the yard, where a car was waiting.
They hadn’t far to goo In less than ten minutes they were being shown by a uniformed messenger into a typical Whitehall office where, waiting to receive them, stood an elderly, tired-faced man, who, nevertheless, had about him an air of quiet efficiency.
The Air Commodore made the introductions. “Charles, this is Bigglesworth, the pilot we were speaking about. Bigglesworth, this is Major Charles, of the counter-espionage section of M.I.5.”
The Intelligence officer nodded unsmilingly. “Sit down,” he requested, and then turned penetrating eyes on Biggles. “So you’re Bigglesworth. I’ve heard of you, of course. You’ve been around a bit, I believe.”
“I’ve seen as much of the world as most people,” admitted Biggles.
“How well do you know the Balkans?”
“Not very well.”
“Macedonia—Northern Greece?”
Biggles shook his head. “I may have flown over, but not with any particular interest, so I can’t say I know it.”
“No matter. You can find your way there?”
“Certainly.”
“Very well. The area in which I’m interested is at the western end of the frontier with Bulgaria. As you may know, there has been a lot of trouble there lately—Greek revolutionaries, communists, bandits, guerillas of all sorts, and heaven knows what, all fighting each other to oblige one or two political grafters who would like to own the country. With them I’m not particularly concerned. I’m interested in one man only. His real name and nationality are of no importance. He’s a British agent, and one of the best men I have in that part of the world. He w
ill answer to the name of Maxos. He speaks English. Where he has been is of no concern to you, but he has in his possession, gained at fearful risks, a certain document which I am very anxious to have. He was making his way to Greece, where we have friends, with every hostile agent looking for him, when, by sheer bad luck, he was struck in the thigh by a bullet, fired either by one of his pursuers or by a casual rebel—we don’t know which. He managed to crawl into cover, and there he is at this moment. He may be alive or he may be dead. I have lost touch with him. One thing’s certain; he’s no longer able to travel. I want the papers he has on his person. I haven’t another man near enough to reach him on foot in time to do any good. Flying is the only hope. You follow?”
Biggles nodded.
“The man’s position is roughly on a line between Demphos and Petritza. These are villages about seven miles apart. You’ll find them on the map. The terrain, as far as I’m able to describe it, is what is usually called rolling country. In places it is flat and fertile, but there are rough areas with timber-covered hills. Until a few hours ago Maxos was in touch with me by walkie-talkie radio and able to tell me what had happened. His signals were getting weak and soon afterwards faded out. There’s no need for me to tell you what I want you to do. All I want to know is, will you do it?”
“Of course,” answered Biggles without hesitation.
“Very well. You know better than I do what will be necessary so make your own arrangements. Speed is everything. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more about the nature of the country at that particular spot. There may be no flat patch large enough for you to land upon. If that turns out to be the case, how you’ll get down—or having got down, how you’ll get off again—I don’t know. That’s your business. If it comes to a crash landing, don’t worry about the aircraft. Burn it, and get home any way you can. Take plenty of money. I’ll send you over a supply of currency likely to be useful in emergency. Save the man if you can, but, alive or dead, get the papers. If he’s still alive no doubt he’ll show himself to you because he knows that I’m trying to get a rescue plane to him. If he’s dead, or unconscious—well, the job of finding him may be rather more difficult.”
Biggles smiled at this flagrant under-statement. To find a man who had hidden himself from observation, in such wild country, was likely to be more than difficult, he thought.
“One or two final points,” went on Major Charles. “Your aircraft must carry no nationality marks, military or civil, or someone will start a scream about flying over foreign territory without official sanction. There’s no time for that. In any case, you know what happens to any aircraft flying behind the Iron Curtain. You will certainly be shot at if you’re seen; and if you’re shot down, that’ll be the last we shall hear of you. But I needn’t enlarge on the risks of the undertaking. With your experience they must be apparent to you.”
“I’ll see what I can do about it,” promised Biggles.
“Any more questions?”
“None. You want me to fetch the papers—and the man if he’s still alive.”
“Exactly.”
“Then as he is wounded, the sooner I’m on my way the better.”
“I think so. There’s no particular urgency about the papers once you have them in your possession. As long as you get them to me I shall be satisfied. When will you start?”
“Tonight. I shall be over the objective by dawn.”
“Good.” Major Charles got. and held out a hand. “Best of luck!”
“Thanks.” Biggles shook hands, and without speaking returned with the Air Commodore to the Yard.
“Anything you want from me?” asked the Air Commodore as they parted. “Anything I can do...?”
“There’s just one thing,” answered Biggles thoughtfully. “I shall take the long-range Auster for the job, but I shall have to refuel somewhere. Brindisi would do. Speaking from memory that’s about two hundred and fifty miles from the objective. You might smooth things out for me there—Customs, petrol, and so on—through the International Police Commission.”
“I’ll do that.”
“I shall tell the others about this business,” went on Biggles. “Then, if I don’t get back they can have a shot at it. One of us should pull it off. In fact, Ginger can follow me out and wait at Brindisi. He’ll be handy to have a crack at it if I fail, and he’ll be on the spot to give me a hand, should I need it, if I get through. I’m thinking of the man Maxos. I’ll save him if it’s possible; but if he’s badly hurt he’ll need medical attention. You might have an ambulance standing by at Brindisi, in case. Is that all right with you?”
“As long as you get those papers anything will be all right with me,” asserted the Air Commodore. “It’s your show. Manage it your own way. Be careful.”
“I always am,” murmured Biggles as he walked on.
Twelve hours later, from five thousand feet, Biggles watched the dawn break, chill and cheerless, through the whirling arc of the airscrew as his Auster drove an eastward course over what appeared to be a lifeless land of rolling plains and rocky hills. Of the fertile areas of which Major Charles had spoken little could be seen, either on account of early-morning mist that hung in the valleys or because the peasants who should have tilled the soil had abandoned homes stricken by the curse of civil war. Only the irregular patches of timber stood out darkly against a background that was for the most part colourless.
Biggles’s eyes moved ceaselessly, from earth to sky, and occasionally to his instrument panel, which told him that he was nearing his objective. That eyes on the ground were watching him he did not doubt, for an aircraft cannot move in daylight without being seen; but it was from eyes in the sky, that would, he knew, appear when his presence was reported, that he had most to fear. There was a certain amount of cloud about, and behind the curtain it provided he had remained for most of his passage across Eastern Europe; but now, in order to see what lay below, he had been forced into the open. Dead reckoning had taken him to the vital area, but he could not rely on long range navigation to reveal the villages between which lay the man he had come so far to find.
From the height at which he flew he hoped to pick out both villages and take a course between them; and this in fact he did; at least, with no conspicuous landmarks to guide him he had to assume that they were the hamlets he sought. One appeared to be in ruins. From the other smoke drifted sluggishly into the air, either from kitchens or smouldering homes; he could not be sure which. Not that it mattered overmuch as he was not concerned with the actual villages. His hand moved to the throttle. The nose of the aircraft tilted down as the engine died. The Auster glided on, losing height slowly, the air whispering softly over the plane surfaces.
Looking over his shoulder Biggles studied the sky behind him with the calculating efficiency of long practice, seeking a moving speck which he feared might be there. But there was nothing, nothing except wisps of fleecy alto-cirrus cloud aglow with the reflected light of the rising sun. Satisfied that, for the moment at any rate, he was not being shadowed, he returned his attention to the ground.
It was much as he expected to find it, but, even so, regarded in cold blood he was dismayed by the seemingly hopeless task that he had set himself. Right across the landscape, cutting at right-angles across the area under survey, ran two ravines, their sides buried under a blanket of vegetation. Between these stood a pinewood of some size. For the rest, the ground appeared to be mostly barren, stony earth, for the greater part uneven, with occasional groups of ancient olive trees, conspicuous by their silvery foliage.
It was quite evident to Biggles that if the man he sought had died in his hiding-place a score of men might search for him for weeks in vain. But the big question that exercised his mind was whether to remain in the air or try to get down. There were arguments for and against both possibilities. If the man was still alive he would hear the aircraft, in which case it might reasonably be supposed that he would reveal himself. If he did, he would be more easily spotted from the air t
han from ground level. On the other hand, if he, Biggles, landed, he might choose a spot miles from the wounded man. Not that there was much choice in the matter of a landing ground. The Auster was slow, and could get down in an area much smaller than would be required for a fast machine; which was, of course, why he had employed that particular type. Naturally he was anxious to get down as close as possible to his man, for he realised that by this time he must have been seen by hostile eyes and his presence reported. At the most he could not reckon on more than an hour free from molestation.
In the end he decided to compromise. He would first fly low over the important area to make sure that Maxos, if he were still alive, would see him and expose himself. If this failed, he would land on such places as were available in the hope that Maxos would have enough strength to reach him. As a plan it was far from satisfactory, but there was nothing more he could do.
Putting it into action, he swung low over the first village and took up a course for the second. Looking down as he passed over the primitive dwellings he saw groups of men standing in the street staring up at him. Others were hurrying out to join them. Significantly, there were no women. Then he observed that some of the men carried rifles, and that told him all he needed to know. The village was occupied by a military force, but whether by Government troops, rebels or bandits it was impossible to tell.
He flew on, banking in alternate directions, blipping his engine—the only signal he could make to announce his arrival—eyes scanning the ground, first on one side of the machine then the other, looking both for Maxos and possible landing-places. In this way he covered half the distance without seeing a living soul. Once a bullet struck his machine, but of the man who had fired it he saw no sign. Never did a task seem more futile, and as he carried on it was more in hope than confidence of the outcome. He circled the pinewood. Nothing happened.
