Biggles' Combined Operation

by W E Johns

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I: BIGGLES GIVES ADVICE

  CHAPTER II: BIGGLES SHOWS HOW

  CHAPTER III: GINGER GOES ALONE

  CHAPTER IV: TO THE LAUGHING HORSE

  CHAPTER V: DEL GRIKKO CALLS THE TUNE

  CHAPTER VI: FRESH PLANS

  CHAPTER VII: BERTIE HAS A BRAINWAVE

  CHAPTER VIII: BERTIE GETS HIS WAY

  CHAPTER IX: LOST AND FOUND

  CHAPTER X: BERTIE GOES ASHORE

  CHAPTER XI: A STRANGE ENCOUNTER

  CHAPTER XII: THE MONASTERY

  CHAPTER XIII: GUNS SPEAK

  CHAPTER XIV: TO FINISH THE JOB

  CHAPTER XV: THE FINAL EFFORT

  CHAPTER I

  BIGGLES GIVES ADVICE

  BIGGLES was strolling under the colonnades of the Rue de Rivoli, in Paris, in conversation with his colleague of the International Police Commission, Marcel Brissac of France, the annual meeting of which they had just attended, when a hand touched him on the arm. Turning, he found himself looking into the eyes of a young, athletic-looking man, whose accent when he spoke, having removed a cigar from between his teeth, was unmistakably North American.

  “I guess you’re Bigglesworth,” he said, with a disarming smile.

  “You’re not guessing; you know I am,” returned Biggles. “You saw me at the conference this morning, and I saw you. You’re Eddie Ross from the United States. Right?”

  “Correct. You must have heard me say my piece.”

  “I did, and you didn’t leave anyone in doubt as to how you felt about the chief item on the agenda.”

  “Ah-ha. The dope racket.”

  “From the way some of the delegates were looking at you they didn’t think too much of what you were giving them.”

  “It’s time somebody dropped a few bricks,” stated Ross, grimly.

  Biggles smiled faintly. “Well, you certainly did that. Mind one doesn’t fall on your toe.”

  “You mean I’m liable to get myself fired? Forget it.”

  “You’re more likely to get yourself shot.”

  “Two can play that game.”

  “You gave me the impression of having come here deliberately to let off steam.”

  “Sure did. Dope is pouring into the States from this side of the Atlantic.”

  “And you aim to stop it?”

  “Sure.”

  Biggles glanced casually up and down the broad pavement. “By the way, meet Marcel Brissac, of the Sûreté.”

  “Glad to know you,” said Ross, as they shook hands.

  Biggles continued. “Is this your first visit to Europe?”

  “Ah-ha.”

  “And your first big assignment?”

  “Yep. How did you work it out?”

  “I thought it might be from the way you carried on this morning. Don’t get me wrong, but do you think it was wise to say as much as you did?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why tell the world what you intend to do?”

  “The conference was in private session, wasn’t it?”

  “It was; but when fifty or more people know a thing it doesn’t long remain secret. I’d wager what you said is already in the hands of the leader of the gang you hope to liquidate.”

  “Are you kiddin’?”

  Biggles shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. Keep your voice down. You may not mind people knowing your business but I’d rather they didn’t know mine.”

  Eddie grinned. “You seem kinda nervous.”

  “Rattlesnakes scare me stiff.”

  “We’ve plenty of those where I come from.”

  “So I believe. But they do at least give you a warning before they strike. Dope barons strike first and rattle afterwards. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Then take a tip from an older man,” advised Biggles, seriously. “At your age I would probably have behaved as you did this morning, but since then I’ve learned there’s nothing to be gained, and maybe a lot to lose, by letting the enemy know what you’re doing. Let ‘em find out—if they can.”

  Biggles walked on, Marcel and Eddie keeping pace with him. Eddie kept glancing at Biggles curiously. Catching his eye Biggles continued. “Please take what I’ve just said in the way it was meant. I’d be the last man to discourage resolution. I can see you’re keen and I like your enthusiasm, but I fancy you haven’t quite realized what you’re up against.”

  Eddie glanced at Marcel and winked.

  Marcel didn’t smile. “C’est vrai,” he said softly. “Beegles is an old fox. Remember what he tells you.”

  “We can handle our domestic problems but this dope is coming to us from Europe,” complained Eddie.

  “A lot of things we don’t like come to us from America but we can’t stop ‘em,” answered Biggles. “Have you evidence that the stuff is coming from Europe?”

  “Well—er—no,” admitted Eddie.

  “It probably starts from the East,” contended Biggles. “Asia has been in the drug business for centuries. It’s big business, too; don’t make any mistake about that.”

  The three police officers had now reached the Rue des Pyramides, at a corner of which a triple line of chairs in front of a cafe-restaurant occupied most of the pavement.

  “If we’re going to talk we might as well take the strain off our ankles,” suggested Biggles, steering a course for some vacant chairs at the end of the line.

  “Drinks are on me,” said Eddie, as they sat down. “I should pay for butting in on you fellers.”

  “Don’t let that worry you,” returned Biggles. “We’re all pulling in the same boat.” When the waiter had brought their order he went on. “I’d heard the narcotics racket was flourishing in the States but I didn’t realize it was as bad as you made out at the meeting.”

  “It’s worse,” growled Eddie. “The skunks are now handing out the stuff to kids. They start by giving it away—”

  “Giving it away!” interposed Biggles, looking astonished.

  “That’s what I said. It’s adulterated dope, fifty per cent dried milk powder, but that’s enough to spark off the habit. Having got the market going they then sell the stuff cheaply. The fool kids don’t realize that dope is habit-forming until the time comes when they must have it or go crazy. That’s when the peddler says the candies are hard to get and up goes the price.”

  “Did you say candies?” queried Biggles, curiously.

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t quite understand.”

  “Peddlers are selling the stuff as what you call sweets.”

  “By thunder! I’m not surprised you’re getting worried. What’s the dope—black or white?”1

  “The stuff starts with cocaine but that’s only the first step to heroin.”

  “What’s this talk about sweets?” inquired Biggles.

  Ross took from a waistcoat pocket a matchbox, and from it tipped on to the table a small brown object rather like a large pill. “Take a look at that,” he invited.

  “Looks harmless,” murmured Biggles.

  “A chocolate?” queried Marcel.

  “It is chocolate—on the outside,” resumed Ross. He picked up a knife and cutting the object in halves exposed a white centre. “There’s your cocaine,” he continued. “The man who was peddling this also had heroin,” he concluded, harshly.

  “Ssh. Not so loud,” warned Biggles.

  Ross looked up. “You sure seem mighty nervous.”

  “I am,” admitted Biggles, evenly. “These things have that effect on me. How did you get this, by the way?”

  “It was brought to us by the father of a lad of seventeen,” explained the American. “He didn’t know what it was but he got suspicious when
the boy demanded more and more pocket money, and when he got it, soon afterwards seemed sorta dazed. The father thought the boy had been drinking, so one night he went through his pockets and this was what he found. It was out of mere curiosity that he brought it to us for analysis. We were able to tell him what it was.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We told him the next time the boy asked for money to let him have it, which he did. The boy made a bee-line for a youth club, and as we were tailing him we were able to pick up the peddler who was hawking the muck. The kid —I won’t call him a fool because he didn’t know what he was doing—was so far gone that it took months in a clinic to get him right.”

  “What about the rat who was selling him the stuff?”

  “He wasn’t alone. There were others. Not only in New York. We grilled the peddler pretty hard but it got us nowhere.”

  “He wouldn’t talk?”

  “Not on your life. He was an Armenian by birth, and was more scared of the people he worked for than he was of us. Said if he squealed they’d get him, even in prison.”

  Biggles nodded. “That probably was true. It means there’s a powerful ring behind him, one that runs its own murder gang. That’s the usual thing. These dope thugs live by creating fear of the knife or the gun.”

  “The peddler got a long stretch in the penitentiary. Mebbe we’d have done better to let him loose and then tailed him.”

  Biggles shook his head. “It might have worked, but it would have been a long trail to the big boss of the gang. The chances are the man you picked up didn’t even know who he was. He’d know the next contact man over him, the one that supplied him with the merchandise, but nothing more. The dope barons rarely show themselves. They stay at the base. Incidentally, picking up that peddler won’t have done anything to stop the racket. His place would be filled in five minutes. Dope is easy money, and there are always plenty of recruits to take it on. To catch the small fry is merely to cut the tips off the tentacles of a monster that can grow more at will. The one hope of putting a stop to the dirty business, for a time, anyway, is to get the iron in the heart of the beast.”

  “And how would you go about that?” inquired Ross, cynically. “You tell me, brother, because I haven’t a clue as to where to start looking for him, and I’m in a hurry. These dope pills are popping up all over the place. Have a cigar?” Ross threw away the one he had been smoking, which had gone out, and produced another.

  “No thanks.” Biggles lit a cigarette. “Tell me, Eddie— you don’t mind me calling you Eddie?”

  “Wish you would.”

  “Fine. Tell me, why were you selected for this job?”

  “I couldn’t really say. Being an air pilot may have had something to do with it. I was on coast patrol when it was suggested I came here.”

  “Did you fly your own machine over?”

  “No. I came over on the regular service.”

  “And what exactly were you supposed to do when you got here?”

  “I came to represent the U.S.A. at the Interpol Conference and ask the Central Narcotics Bureau if they could help stop the muck coming to us from Europe. That’s mebbe why I got hot at today’s meeting.”

  “They couldn’t help you?”

  “No. They were sympathetic but that was as far as it went.”

  “Getting hot won’t help you.” Biggles flicked the ash off his cigarette, and went on, seriously, “If you take my advice you’ll talk to nobody. And when I say nobody I mean nobody. Dope is dynamite. The man at the top will be raking in millions. I repeat, millions.”

  Eddie raised his eyebrows. “So you think it all starts from one man?”

  “I’d bet on it. When two are in the game one gang wipes out the other, as happened in the booze rackets in your prohibition days.”

  “I didn’t realize there was as much money in dope as you say,” confessed Eddie.

  Biggles smiled wanly. “To give you an idea I could tell you of one man who sold two hundred and fifty thousand pounds worth of heroin in a couple of months. His factory turned out seven tons of the poison before he was stopped. You see, he could charge any price he liked for the stuff, knowing his customers had to have it. A heroin addict can’t give up the habit voluntarily however much he would like to. And most of them would like to.”

  “Who was this guy?”

  “He was a Corsican who operated from Marseilles where he flattered himself by adopting the title of King of the Underworld.”

  “Was his factory in France?”

  “It was, although the factory didn’t actually belong to him. The French authorities had no idea of what was going on, of course. They soon put the lid on it when they were told by the Narcotics Intelligence Bureau.”

  Eddie went on. “How could contraband like dope be handled in tons?”

  Biggles’ lips curled. “You’d be surprised. There was a time when certain oriental diplomats weren’t above making extra money on the side by taking dope through in the Diplomatic Bag. For the rest, I remember a case when heroin was exported in sacks of prunes. The stones were heroin. I’ve known it go through in the wax of candles and in the middle of blocks of concrete.” Biggles’ expression hardened. “If I had my way I’d string these swine up without mercy. They’re worse than murderers. Did you ever see a heroin addict in the final stages?”

  “I can’t remember seeing one,” admitted Eddie, looking hard at Biggles.

  “Then you haven’t, because if you had you’d never forget it,” said Biggles, grimly. “He’s a whimpering bag of skin and bones; a cackling, crawling corpse. You used to be able to see them in the slums of Cairo and Alexandria before the British government got cracking on it. That was when we were in control, of course. At home a recent Act of Parliament has practically abolished the use of heroin even by doctors, who sometimes used it to relieve excessive pain. That’s how dangerous the stuff is thought to be, although it must be admitted that as a pain-killer it does the job. But tell me this. How far do you reckon this peddling of dope to juniors has gone in the States?”

  “Plenty far,” reported Eddie. “These doped candies are circulating in every big city from New York to ‘Frisco.”

  “Then all I can say is, the sooner you get your teeth into the racket the better,” advised Biggles, earnestly. “There was a time when a fifth of the population of Egypt was down and out under the influence of narcotics. When Japan marched into China a few years ago they let the Chinese have all the dope they wanted. That proved a convenient way of thinning the population. Do you see what I’m driving at?”

  “Not exactly. You’re talking about Asia and Africa. I’m talking about America.”

  “The people of all three continents, being human beings, would react to dope in the same way. I see no reason why America should be different.”

  “Come straight,” requested Eddie.

  “Very well. Hasn’t it occurred to you to wonder if there might not be more to peddling dope to kids than mere money? Suppose the habit really got hold, as it might in this age of hysterical rock ‘n roll? Women as well as boys. A drug addict is no use to anyone. Deny him the stuff and you simply drive him round the bend. You say your kids are getting the stuff cheap. Why?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Suppose someone, behind the Iron Curtain for instance, didn’t like you. Can you think of a better way of rotting the constitution of your growing man-power, because I can’t?”

  Eddie was staring.

  Biggles shrugged. “Of course, I don’t say this is happening, but from what you’ve told me it strikes me as a possibility. Even if the chief motive was dollars the effect would be the same.”

  Eddie drew a deep breath. “By gosh, Bigglesworth, you’ve got me scared.”

  “Write me off as an alarmist if you like. It was just an idea, bearing in mind that no method of warfare is too low for some people.”

  There was a short silence. Biggles lit another cigarette. Eddie threw aside the chewed end of his
cigar. “You seem to know a lot about this dirty business; tell me more,” he said.

  “It’s a long story, too long to tell here. I know a fair bit about it because the illicit air transportation of dope comes into my job. Briefly, the rot started in the Middle East, where opium and hashish have always been a habit. Then a chemist produced heroin, which is an alkaloid poison derived from opium. Being white, smooth and tasteless, it caught on to such an extent that the Central Narcotics Intelligence Bureau was formed to stop it, or find out where it was coming from. It was coming from Europe, from France in particular. When the French government pounced, the gang moved to Switzerland. When they were stopped there they moved to Turkey where, in a couple of months, before they were rumbled, they exported two tons. Stopped there, the wholesale murderers moved into Bulgaria. It was like trying to hold a cork in water. As soon as you let it go it popped up again somewhere else. If bribery failed the purveyors bumped off anyone who got in their way. As you may or may not know, your notorious gangster Jack Diamond was bumped off because he’d switched from the booze to the dope racket. Somehow he’d got hold of around a hundred pounds weight of heroin.”

  “And Bulgaria is behind the Iron Curtain,” murmured Eddie.

  “The stuff may not be coming from there now,” said Biggles. “It can be made anywhere, in any chemical works. Nationality has nothing to do with it. At the head of the syndicates there have, to my knowledge, been Armenians, Syrians, Greeks, Russians, Rumanians, and that Corsican I spoke about just now. They all established a network of peddlers, working in every country in the world.”

  “With all the world to choose from the problem is to know where to start looking for these devils,” grated Eddie. “How would you go about it?”

  “Frankly, I hadn’t thought about it. You raised the subject. At the moment it seems to be your headache rather than mine, although our turn may came later. It was because of this concentration on America that it occurred to me there might be more behind it than money. Racketeers are hard enough to track down when they’re private individuals; but if the stuff is now being manufactured with the connivance of a government—well, I don’t know what can be done about it, and that’s a fact. If it’s coming from behind the Iron Curtain, for instance, it would be easier to stop the Niagara Falls, because operations would be limited to seizure after the stuff had left the country concerned.”