Biggles in Mexico

by W E Johns

  ‘Where have you come from?’ he asked, pompously.

  ‘We’ve just come from the United States,’ Biggles told him.

  ‘Americanos, eh?’

  ‘No. We’re English.’

  ‘Ca. What are you doing here?’

  Biggles stuck to the rôle he had decided to play. Obviously no man would go to Eltora without a reason.

  ‘We’re looking for some local colour for film locations.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, I am the police. Your passports, please.’

  Biggles and Ginger produced the little blue books embossed with the arms of the United Kingdom of Great Britain.

  The officer studied them closely. In particular, he compared the photographs on page three longer than was necessary — or so it seemed to Ginger. Then he said, curtly: ‘These are not in order. You must come with me to the police-station.’

  Biggles frowned. ‘They’re in perfect order. As you can see, they were stamped by your people at Sonoyta.’

  At this the other man stepped in. ‘Have you just come from Sonoyta?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did you by any chance see a blue Cadillac there, or on the way?’

  ‘No. The only car we saw was the wreck of an old Ford beside the track.’

  The man smiled, a curious knowing smile, which left Ginger wondering what he knew about it.

  Said Biggles, turning to the policeman and trying to keep calm, for he knew the folly of getting wrong with the authorities in a foreign country: ‘What do you want us to do at the police-station?’

  ‘You must stay there while I send to Hermosillo for permits.’

  ‘Permits for what?

  ‘Permission to stay in the country.’

  ‘We have that already.’

  ‘The passports must bear the stamp of police headquarters at Hermosillo.’

  ‘Why Hermosillo?’

  ‘It is the capital of the state.’

  ‘How long is this going to take?’

  The policeman shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  Biggles looked at the other man. ‘Is this the usual procedure?’

  ‘If Juan says so. You can’t argue with the law,’ was the smiling reply. The speaker seemed amused, as if enjoying a private joke.

  But Ginger didn’t smile. The name Juan struck his memory like a gong. According to Tricky that was the name of the policeman at Eltora. He couldn’t possibly have known that unless he had been there, so here was further proof of his story.

  ‘How much money have you got?’ the policeman asked.

  ‘Not more than I shall need,’ answered Biggles, evasively.

  ‘Just a minute,’ the other man broke in again, looking at Biggles, still with amused tolerance. ‘You’re new to Mexico, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve never been here before,’ replied Biggles.

  ‘Then let me put you wise. Haven’t you tumbled to what all this is about?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Juan is after a tip. There’s nothing unusual in that. The cops in places like this are pretty poorly paid. Slip him twenty dollars and you’ll have no more trouble.’

  So this, too, was what happened to Tricky, thought Ginger. In his case, having no money, Ritzy had come to the rescue.

  Although it went against the grain Biggles realized the wisdom of the advice. The last thing he wanted was to get wrong with the police, so he took the notes from his case and handed them over.

  The effect was instantaneous. The policeman beamed. ‘Gracias, señor,’ he acknowledged.

  ‘Now what about some accommodation?’ requested Biggles.

  ‘Que desea Vd., señor?’

  ‘I need a bath, food and a bed,’ said Biggles.

  The policeman yelled, ‘Pepe.’

  While they were waiting for the innkeeper to appear there was an incident which, while trivial, did not escape Ginger’s notice. The good-looking Mexican they had seen up the street came past on his horse at walking pace. Drawing level he half reined in. The man who had advised Biggles to give the policeman money stiffened and rose, his hand moving towards his pocket. The lips of the rider curled in a sneer and he went on. It was the expression on his face that registered with Ginger. The policeman, he also noticed, had been quick to step out of line.

  There the matter ended, for at this juncture the innkeeper appeared. He was a plump, greasy-looking little man with a thin, black moustache, that drooped at the ends. He was dressed in a grey shirt, dirty cotton trousers and, on his feet, a pair of slip-shod sandals.

  Juan waved a lordly hand, talking volubly. ‘Take care of them,’ he ordered.

  ‘Si, señor.’ The innkeeper fetched the two suitcases from the car, looked at the visitors and beckoned. ‘Come, señores,’ he said.

  Ginger observed that his eyes kept flashing to the retreating figure of the mounted Mexican.

  With Biggles he followed their host into the hotel, stepping over an endless column of red ants that marched across the doorway.

  They were shown the bathroom first, either because it was on the ground floor or because Pepe was proud of having such a convenience. Actually, it was a primitive affair just outside the back door, a tin bath, surrounded by a ragged curtain, fed from a pump over a rain-water tank. They were warned to be careful with the water, which was in short supply, the rains being very late. It was a long way to fetch water from the river, and even that was low. If the rain didn’t come soon it would be a serious matter for everyone.

  There was no one else staying at the inn so they were offered a choice of three bedrooms reserved for guests, two double and one single. Biggles decided on a double room overlooking the street. The furnishings could not have been more simple. They comprised two iron bedsteads with coverings that could have been much cleaner, a plaited cane wardrobe, a chair falling to pieces and a deal table with a wash-basin on it.

  The choice having been made Pepe brought in their suitcases and then left them.

  Biggles turned serious eyes to Ginger’s face. ‘Talk about history repeating itself,’ he said quietly. ‘Did you recognize that fellow on the patio?’

  Ginger’s eyebrows went up. ‘No.’

  ‘Neither did I at first, although there was something familiar about his face. Then the penny dropped and I got it. He’s shaved off his moustache and grown sidewhiskers: he’s thinner than he was and put on some extra sun tan; but I’m sure I’m right.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Corny Cornelli, one of Ritzy’s partners.’

  ‘Then Ritzy must still be here.’

  ‘That’s how it looks.’

  ‘What was that talk about a blue Cadillac?’

  ‘I fancy Corny was waiting for it to arrive. That’s what he was doing downstairs. The car might belong to the gang, or to Schultz, coming from the States. I don’t know. But we may, before long. We shall have to play our cards carefully. One sniff of suspicion as to who we really are and anything could happen. Obviously Corny and that cop are as thick as thieves.’

  ‘I’ll tell you this,’ returned Ginger, throwing off his clothes for a bath. ‘Corny may be a pal of the cop, but there’s no love lost between him and that smart cowboy.’

  ‘So I noticed. No doubt we shall learn what that’s about, too, in due course.’

  ‘Are you going to cable the Air Commodore, to let him know that Corny’s here?’

  ‘No. Anyway, not from here. It would be too risky. If Ritzy has the police in his pocket you can bet he’s well in with the post office, too.’

  ‘You might send a message in code.’

  ‘That in itself would look suspicious. We might find ourselves arrested as spies, or something of the sort. But we can talk about this later. Let’s get some of the dirt off ourselves and go down for a meal.’

  In this manner did Biggles and Ginger arrive in Eltora.

  * * *

  1 Long blanket-like shawl, often brightly colored and fringed at the ends, worn in Mexico, especially by men.

/>   2 Inn

  CHAPTER 6

  RITZY CALLS

  FOR Ginger the next hour was comparative luxury. He had shaken from his clothes and shoes the sand that had been rasping his skin. He had had a bath in water that was tepid, and did not look too clean; but he was in no mood to be particular. He had had a satisfying although not very palatable meal of tough cold meat, undercooked rice and tortillas, Mexico’s substitute for bread, made of corn soaked overnight and then ground into a paste. This, patted into flat cakes, very thin, is fried in an ungreased tin. These pancakes are filling, but at first rather hard to digest. Ginger could well understand Nifty getting tired of them and pining for good bread with fish and chips. The coffee was thin, insipid stuff. However, there was nothing apparently wrong with the delicious fruit that ended the repast.

  ‘Go steady with those plums,’ warned Biggles, as Ginger tucked into them. ‘Take a tip from me; in a place like this stick to fruit that has a peel on it, like oranges and bananas. When that’s taken off you know what is inside is clean. Flies may have been on those plums and grapes, and you don’t know where the flies have been. Nor do you know if the hands that picked the fruit were clean. It’s easy to get a dose of dysentery, and if you do you won’t forget it in a hurry.’

  Knowing that Biggles was speaking from experience Ginger took his advice.

  They had of course discussed the situation. Biggles’ immediate worry was the car, for unless they could get it repaired on the spot, the chance of which from all accounts seemed remote, they would be without transport. They were fairly well provided with money, but hadn’t enough on them to buy a new car even if one was available. It looked, Biggles said, as if they might have to call on Algy and Bertie for help. This, he thought, could be done without arousing suspicion, but he did not want to do that at this stage. He also contemplated sending them a telegram, in cryptic terms which they would understand, telling them that the men they sought were still at Eltora and asking them to pass on the information to the Air Commodore. A letter would be safer, but he had no idea how long it would take to reach San Francisco. He said he would make inquiries about the posts.

  For the moment, the first thing was to learn their way about, at the same time hoping that news of Ritzy would come their way without them having to make direct inquiries. Corny knew that two Englishmen had arrived, so that it was reasonable to suppose Ritzy would soon hear about it, in which case he might be expected at the hotel to find out who they were and what they were doing in such an out-of-the-way corner of Mexico.

  Biggles had his story ready and had primed Ginger as to the form it would probably take. In short, he hoped that the information he really wanted, which was why the three crooks were still in Eltora, would sooner or later be volunteered by one of them. The important thing was, it was already clear that Tricky’s story of having been in Eltora was true in substance, no matter how far he had distorted the facts to suit himself. So when they went out to the patio it was really to allow events to take their course. As Biggles put it, there was no need for them to take their fences until they came to them.

  As they walked through the dingy, ant-infested little hall, they could hear Pepe, the proprietor, talking to a woman, presumably his wife. He seemed to be laying down the law and spoke too fast for Ginger to make much of the conversation; but three names were mentioned several times, and about one of them there could be no mistake. It was Cornelli. The others were José and Margarita. When the conversation broke off, Biggles, who had paused, walked on.

  ‘Cornelli must be here under his proper name,’ said Ginger quietly.

  ‘He couldn’t use a false one unless he’s carrying a false passport,’ answered Biggles. ‘He’d be checked when he entered the country. Remember how they went over us at the frontier. Anyway, as he isn’t known here there would appear to be no reason why he shouldn’t use his own name, and the same with the other two.’

  ‘Did you get what Pepe was carrying on about?’

  ‘Part of it. It had nothing to do with us. There seems to be a woman in the case. Cornelli is involved, and another man José. Pepe was predicting trouble, and if Cornelli is fooling about with a local girl, and her father or her boy friend take exception to it, there might well be trouble brewing.’

  ‘From what I’ve read the people in these parts can be handy with their knives.’

  ‘As long as they don’t stick ‘em into us, and I shall do my best not to provide an excuse, we needn’t worry,’ said Biggles, lightly, as they stopped on the patio to survey the dusty, sun-soaked street. There was not a soul about.

  ‘It looks pretty warm out there,’ remarked Ginger.

  ‘I imagine that’s why most people are indoors,’ replied Biggles. ‘We’ll just take a turn to get our bearings.’

  ‘You don’t think there’s any risk of you being recognized if we should happen to run into any of the gang?’

  ‘No. That’s why I was sent here. I’m sure Cornelli didn’t recognize me so that should go for the others. After all, we haven’t had much to do with professional criminals in their particular line of operations.’

  They walked the length of the street without seeing anyone except one or two elderly women gossiping as they did their shopping at the open window of the little store. Ginger caught a snatch of conversation as they passed. A name they had already heard was mentioned. It was José.

  ‘This fellow José, whoever he is, seems to be in the news,’ murmured Ginger.

  There was no garage, but Biggles spoke to the old man Lorenzo, mentioned by Corny as having petrol. It was learned that he had some petrol, not much, and also that he claimed to be a mecánico; but he had no spare parts, so there was nothing he could do about the embrague — the clutch. He helped them to push the car, which was still standing as they had left it outside the inn, into the shade of some trees.

  As there was nothing more they could do Biggles and Ginger walked back to the patio to get out of the blazing sun. There, in chairs, they made themselves as comfortable as hordes of flies would allow and resumed the subject of how they could get over the transport difficulty, now threatening to be a serious obstacle in Biggles’ plan.

  ‘We should be in a mess if it became necessary for us to get away from here in a hurry,’ said Biggles, frowning. ‘One thing is certain, there could be no question of walking across that blistering desert back to the States. There may be a regular service by another route. We’ll find out. But that wouldn’t be like having a car of our own, which would make us independent.’

  ‘I can see a car coming now,’ observed Ginger, sitting up to look. ‘If it’s going to the States it might take a message through for us.’

  The car, a roomy Overland, carrying a United States registration plate, came to a stop in front of the hotel. Two men in white duck suits, one spotless and the other not so clean, got out and strolled up to the patio. The smart one Ginger recognized at once. He was Ritzy Brabinsky. The other, he suspected, was Nifty Brimshawe, although he had altered his appearance somewhat. He now wore a straggling hay-coloured moustache. But he was typical of a certain kind of cockney, thin-faced, sharp-featured, with quick, alert movements and eyes that were never still. He reminded Ginger of a weasel.

  Ritzy nodded and dropped into a vacant chair. ‘Good morning to you,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We don’t often have visitors here, but a friend of mine told me two had arrived so I’ve dropped in to see if we could be of any help. I understand you’re having a little trouble.’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ confirmed Biggles. ‘We’re having more than a little trouble. Our car’s broken down and it seems there’s nothing we can do about it. My friend and I were sitting here wondering how we were going to get back to the States.’

  ‘In a hurry?’

  ‘Not particularly. Our time’s our own, but we don’t want to sit here stewing in our own juice for longer than is necessary.’

  ‘You’re English, I believe?’

  ‘That’s right.’
r />   ‘What brought you to this out-of-the-way hole?’

  ‘Oh, business.’

  ‘Films, I hear.’

  ‘We wanted to have a look at the real Mexico and Eltora was suggested as a place where we might find it.’

  ‘Whoever told you that was right.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got here, but we’re now faced with the problem of getting back across the border. Getting anywhere, if it comes to that. Can you suggest anything?’

  ‘What’s the trouble with your car?’

  ‘The clutch has gone. It was slipping a bit when I started and I finished it off grinding through the sand on that abominable desert road.’

  Ritzy shook his head. ‘To get a new clutch sent here by the makers would take time, and even if you got one I doubt if anyone local would be able to fit it. It’s impossible here to get anything done in a hurry, anyway. Time means nothing. Your best chance would be to get a lift to the railway at Hermosillo by someone passing through, although that doesn’t often happen. There’s a better road between Hermosillo and the border.’

  To do that would mean abandoning my car.’

  ‘I’m afraid so, but you might come back for it later.’

  ‘You’re not likely to be going to Hermosillo yourself?’

  ‘No. I’d run you in, but it happens that I’m waiting for a friend to arrive from the States and it’s important that I should be here to meet him. He should be here any time now. In fact, he’s overdue.’

  ‘Is he likely to be going back to the States after he’s finished his business with you?’

  ‘Probably, although there’s a chance he may go on to Mexico City.’

  ‘He might give me a lift.’

  ‘I could ask him.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s very kind of you. I take it you live here?’

  ‘Yes. I share a little villa on the outskirts of the village with two friends. Look in sometime and have a drink. You can’t miss it. About a quarter of a mile down the road on the right. The name’s Los Palmeras. It’s on the gate.’

  ‘What on earth do you find to do here?’