Biggles in Mexico

by W E Johns

  Biggles glanced up from his desk. ‘What’s the idea?’

  Ginger grinned. ‘I’m only testing my speed on the draw.’

  ‘Wild West stuff, eh?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Forget it. Accuracy is more important than speed.’

  ‘I’ve often wondered how it was done.’

  ‘How what was done?’

  ‘Knocking the spots out of the six of spades in six shots — and that sort of thing.’

  ‘If ever that was done, which I doubt, there were precious few men who could do it,’ asserted Biggles, cynically.

  ‘Do you mean that’s all bunk?’

  ‘I do. And the same goes for all these high-speed sharp-shooting cowboys, sheriffs, rustlers and gamblers you see in action at the cinema or on the television screen. That’s the only place it happens or ever did happen.’

  ‘Are you seriously telling me it can’t really be done?’ Ginger sounded pained at being disillusioned.

  Biggles shrugged. ‘Once in a blue moon, maybe. It’s just something that has grown into the traditional cowboy yarns of the wild and woolly West. Pretty to watch, and fascinating to read about, but mostly imagination. Still, there’s no denying it makes a good story, this shooting from the hip and using the thumb on the hammer instead of the trigger to gain a split second. Most of that comes into the category of fiction, not fact.’

  ‘You seem quite convinced of that.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve tried it, and I’ve had plenty of opportunity to practise. Moreover, having come through two wars I’ve seen a lot of fellows try it without getting on the mark. Years ago, when I was in the Service and fancied my chance with a gun, I did a three weeks’ revolver course at The School of Musketry, and you can take it from me that to hit a target the size of a man at twenty yards isn’t as easy as it’s made to look in pictures. And that’s taking deliberate aim. Shooting from the hip is much more difficult. I must have fired hundreds of rounds. After all, the cartridges cost me nothing. Before you say I didn’t practise enough let me remind you that the average wage of a cowboy in the old days was about ten pounds a month. A cartridge out West cost him around three shillings. Now work it out yourself and tell me how such a man could afford to waste bullets and still have enough money for a frolic when he rode into town?’

  ‘You know, you’re getting in the habit of debunking everything,’ protested Ginger.

  Biggles grinned. ‘Maybe that’s old age creeping on me. Age means experience. So I say it’s time somebody did a bit of debunking of the stuff they dish out for gullible people to lap up. As a matter of interest it was some American newspaper men who showed up this fancy shooting only the other day. They looked up one of the famous old-time gunmen and asked him how it was done. He gave a demonstration. Did he shoot from the hip? Not on your life. What he did was hold out the gun in front of him with both hands, take careful aim and squeeze the trigger. He said that was how it was really done. Mugs who tried the fancy stuff didn’t last long.’

  ‘Now hold you hard, old boy, and let me say my little piece,’ requested Bertie Lissie. ‘I’ve seen it done. Absolutely. Yes, by Jove. Moving targets, too.’

  ‘What you saw was a trick.’

  ‘Trick! Can’t I believe my own peepers?’

  ‘No.’ Biggles laughed softly at Bertie’s expression. ‘Where did you see this slick gun-play — at a music-hall?’

  ‘At a circus. A chappie dolled up like Buffalo Bill threw electric light bulbs into the air one after the other and busted them with his gun. He never missed.’

  ‘Of course he didn’t. I could have done it the way he did it.’

  ‘Are you telling me this was all fake?’

  ‘Of course. You assumed he was shooting with ordinary single bullets.’

  Bertie blinked. ‘Wasn’t he?’

  ‘Use your head. Had he used bullets he’d have punched holes in the roof. Once, after watching one of these fancy marksmen I bought him a few drinks and asked him how he did it. All you do is load some cartridges with a pinch of dust shot. The pellets, fifty or more of them, spread over an area half a yard across, so if one shot didn’t hit the mark you would be unlucky, wouldn’t you? It’s as simple as that.’ Biggles’ smile broadened.

  ‘Well, stuff me with suet pudding,’ muttered Bertie, disgustedly. ‘To think I soaked it all up. Ain’t there no honesty left in the world?’

  ‘Not as much as there used to be,’ returned Biggles. ‘Don’t worry. You weren’t the only one to be taken in. To come back to what started us off on this tack, you can take this supersonic claw-fingered gun-play with a large spoonful of salt. Not one man in a million can do it, which may be a good thing for us. Speed’s no use if you don’t shoot straight. In air combat I was never scared of the man who started burning powder at extreme range. It was the type who held his fire that gave me palpitations. But don’t let me spoil your fun. As I said just now, this high-speed bang-bang stuff makes a good story.’

  The discussion was brought to a close by the buzz of the intercom telephone. Bertie, who happened to be nearest, answered it. ‘Okay, sir,’ he said. Having replaced the receiver he looked at Biggles. ‘That was the chief. He wants to see you in his office.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Right away.’

  Biggles got up. ‘Fasten your belts, chaps,’ he murmured. ‘This sounds like work.’

  He made his way down the corridor to the office of the head of his department, and after a warning knock on the door, entered.

  ‘Come in, Bigglesworth,’ requested the Air Commodore. With a curious expression on his face he went on: ‘Sit down and be prepared to listen to the most unlikely story you ever heard. Help yourself to cigarettes. You may need them.’

  ‘If the story is as unlikely as that, sir, why trouble to tell it?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘Because,’ answered the Air Commodore, ‘I have a feeling that somewhere deep down in the bottom of it there may be a few grains of truth.’

  Biggles lit a cigarette. ‘Go ahead, sir. I’m listening.’

  The Air Commodore began. ‘Do you remember, nearly a year ago, a big diamond robbery in London? It was in the small hours of a Sunday morning. A caretaker in the City was shot dead and the thieves got away with a parcel of diamonds valued at between a hundred and fifty and two hundred thousand pounds. To some people they would be worth more. The crooks were never caught — apparently they succeeded in getting out of the country with the loot.’

  ‘I recall the case, but it wasn’t up our street so I only know what I read in the papers.’

  ‘For certain reasons some of the details were not released to the press. We knew the names of the men concerned with the robbery but we didn’t want them to know we knew. It was thought that would give us a better chance of catching them.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘If they thought we didn’t know them they might stay in the country. Should they have gone abroad they might, feeling safe, come back.’

  ‘They got abroad, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And they haven’t come back?’

  ‘No. At the moment it looks as if they intend to stay where they are.’

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘In Mexico.’

  Biggles stared. ‘Mexico! What the deuce are they doing there? How in the name of all that’s fantastic did they get there, anyway?’

  ‘That’s what I’m going to tell you — if there’s any truth in a statement that has just been made by an informer. I warned you that the story would strain your credulity. However, as you may have to go to Mexico you’d better hear it for what it’s worth.’

  ‘Have these crooks still got the diamonds?’

  ‘Again, if there’s any truth in what we’ve been told, there’s reason to believe they still have the bulk of them. The government would pay more than their value to get them back. Politics come into it. These were not gem stones. Th
ey were commercial diamonds, indispensable for high-class industrial purposes. Which is why, as you probably know, their export to potential enemy countries is absolutely forbidden. Consequently, if these stones arrived in, say, Russia or China, America would be very peeved about it. Certain sections of the American press might even hint that we had wangled the whole business to get round the export regulations. We don’t want that to happen.’

  ‘Of course not. But if you know where these crooks have gone to ground why not collect ‘em under an Extradition Warrant?’

  The Air Commodore shook his head sadly. ‘Extradition, the giving up of a criminal who has got abroad to the government of the country in which the crime was committed, is just about the trickiest business in the whole practice of law. Actually, there is no law of Extradition. One can’t demand the handing over of a criminal. It is always a matter of agreement with the particular country concerned, and these agreements differ in almost every case. Great Britain has Extradition Treaties of one sort or another with most civilized countries, but the terms differ. Certain crimes, only the most serious, are listed, but even these are judged differently by the various nations.’

  ‘I know that offences of a political nature are seldom if ever included even where Extradition arrangements are in force.’

  ‘That is correct. Of course, if there is no Extradition Treaty nothing can be done. It really boils down to this. If a country doesn’t want to give up a man, nothing can make it do so. Which is why so many extradition cases drag on for months or sometimes years. Even when you do get your man he can only be tried for the specific offence named in the Warrant. Some countries will not in any circumstances give up one of its own subjects. Others will not hand over a man to the country in which the crime was committed; they will only send him back to his own country. And so it goes on, wheels within wheels. You see how complicated it all is.’

  ‘But this diamond robbery was a deliberate crime, involving murder. How could there be anything political about it?’

  ‘If a country had reasons for not wanting to give up these crooks it could be argued that the crime was political, because, as I have said, the import and export of diamonds is subject to international agreement.’

  ‘It sounds like a messy business.’

  ‘It is. Everybody wants diamonds. No country wants to part with them. They could be used as a pretty substantial bribe. If those stolen diamonds were destined for a communist country, and it now seems that they were, it would be no use asking a friend of that country to hand over the thieves — or their loot. Some countries might be afraid of upsetting Russia. So you see how we’re fixed. Again, once you start Extradition proceedings there’s always a chance of the crooks being tipped off, in which case they have only to cross the nearest frontier when you have to start all over again.’

  ‘Which would you rather have, the crooks or the diamonds?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘Naturally, as cold-blooded murder comes into the picture we’d like to get our hands on both; but if we could prevent the diamonds from reaching the wrong people it would be something.’

  ‘How many crooks were there in this raid?’

  ‘Three, possibly four. The informer might have been in it although he swears he wasn’t. Not that that means anything. You can’t believe a man known to be a liar.’

  ‘Were these fellows British?’

  ‘One, certainly. We don’t know about the other two. They may have procured passports, genuine or false. Being professional crooks they know all the tricks. They had been in this country for some time when the job was done. The leader of the gang, and the brains of it, is a man we know as Nicolas Brabinsky, which might, or might not, be his real name. Anyhow, that was the name under which he entered this country as a Polish refugee. He’s a cut above the others, and being the flashy type, soon became known as Ritzy. You know what a passion all these people have for nicknames.’

  ‘Could you never pin anything on him?’

  ‘No. He was a bit too smart. He did the organizing but left the work to assistants. He had two regulars. The first of these was a dark-skinned half-breed named Carlos Cornelli, known to the underworld as Corny. He came here from South America as a guitar player in a dance band, and stayed here when the others went home, hanging about the shady night clubs. We believe he was a dope peddler when Ritzy picked him up.’

  ‘If he came from South America he’d speak Spanish, which would be useful in Mexico.’

  ‘Of course. The third member of the party was, and apparently still is, a tough little cockney named Samuel Brimshawe, better known in certain quarters as Nifty. He has a police record, starting at Borstal. We were looking for Cornelli at the time of the robbery to deport him as an undesirable alien. I may say this gang was suspected of being concerned with mailbag robberies. We had nothing on Ritzy, although since his disappearance we’ve heard that he once ran a smuggling racket, with his own boat, in the Mediterranean. That hooks up with our latest information.’

  ‘How did you get all this gen?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘I’m coming to that. The Yard has of course been working on the diamond robbery ever since it happened, but some details have just reached us from a squealer, a small-time London crook named David Adamson who rejoices in the nickname of Tricky. He seems to have lived up to it. He admits that he was once associated with the gang but left it before the diamond affair. Naturally he would say that.’

  ‘You don’t believe it?’

  ‘No. He was in it until something went wrong. This is his story. How much is true and how much is lies you must judge for yourself. His tale takes some believing, but there could be something in it. It’s probably a mixture of truth and lies.’

  ‘Why did he squeal?’

  ‘He gives several reasons, but I fancy the real one was this. As it was known to us that he had been associated with Nifty Brimshawe he was scared stiff, in view of the murder, that he might be picked up on the capital charge. Like most old lags he had a horror of the rope. Also, he was short of money.’

  ‘In other words he had lost his nerve.’

  ‘That’s about the English of it.’

  ‘Did he actually give himself up?’

  ‘More or less, in quite unusual circumstances. Now, this is the story he tells. Get ready to raise your eyebrows.’

  CHAPTER 3

  STRANGER THAN FICTION

  THE Air Commodore went on. ‘In his fright at the diamond murder Tricky emigrated to Canada — so he says.’

  ‘How did he manage that?’

  ‘By the fairly simple process of taking a job as a deck hand on a transatlantic tramp steamer and deserting when he got to the other side. Having forfeited his pay by desertion he had no money, of course, so he had to see about getting some. How he went about this he hasn’t told us, but we can imagine. With the police on his trail he skipped across the border into the United States and in due course made his way to San Francisco. He was soon in trouble again and had to do another bolt, this time into Mexico. He admits frankly that the police had reason to look for him.’

  Biggles stared. ‘Do you believe all this?’

  ‘No. But it could be true, because it seems to be a fact that Tricky arrived in Mexico. And he wouldn’t be likely to go there without a good reason. But never mind how he got there. For the purpose of argument let us say he did get there. How he managed that is where improbability really steps in to make truth wilt in the dust. According to Tricky he stole a car.’

  ‘One can believe that, anyway.’

  ‘Yes. And one can believe, as he claims, that he ran out of petrol soon after crossing the Mexican border, although it is more likely that with the police hot on his trail he thought it safer to abandon the car. Keeping off the road he went on on foot, got lost in a cactus forest and nearly died of thirst. As you probably know, the frontier between California and Mexico runs through some of the worst, and hottest, desert in the world. However, luck was still with him. He was found by a party of
Indian smugglers, who took him along with them. He stayed with them for a time and then plodded on to a flat-roofed pueblo, or village, a little place named Eltora on the Magdalena River. Anyhow, that’s the story this cheap little crook asks us to believe to account for his arrival in one of the wildest and most remote parts of Mexico.’

  Biggles was smiling. ‘Tricky certainly has imagination if nothing else. Is there such a place in Mexico as Eltora?’

  ‘Certainly. It’s just south of the border. And as it’s only a village, unless he had been there it’s hard to see how he could have heard of the place. It’s even harder to see how he could know as much about it as he does. He has all the details at his fingertips — what the people do, what they eat, drink, and all the rest of it. He couldn’t have guessed that, and geography could hardly have been his long suit in what little schooling he had. So there he was, in what is perhaps the wildest part of Mexico, broke to the world. But luck was still with him. Now hold on to your chair, for this caps the lot. Who does he meet in Eltora, of all places in the world, but — can you guess?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘His old pals, Ritzy, Corny and Nifty.’

  Biggles flinched. ‘Now wait a minute, sir, wait a minute,’ he protested. ‘I’m a credulous sort of fellow and I know that coincidence can play strange tricks, but this is going too far.’

  The Air Commodore was laughing softly. ‘I warned you to get a grip on yourself. That, of course, was no coincidence.’

  ‘You mean — he knew they were there.’

  ‘He must have done. The age of miracles has passed.’

  ‘What kills me is that Tricky should expect you to swallow such a fantastic yarn.’

  ‘He had the explanation ready. He says the local policeman picked him up for begging food. Being a foreigner who couldn’t speak the language, and had no passport, he was put into the one-room gaol to think of a better story than the one he was telling, which was that he was an Englishman who had been robbed and had lost his way. At least, that was what he tried to explain, for he knew no Spanish and the cop knew only a few words of American English. What the policeman — whose name he says was Juan something or other — did, was send for a local resident, who spoke both languages, to act as interpreter. That was Corny Cornelli. With him came Ritzy and Nifty. They bailed Tricky out — or more likely fixed things with the cop to let him go — and took him home. Maybe they were afraid he would talk. They had rented a nice little villa and were living very comfortably with everything laid on, including a female servant.’