Biggles' Combined Operation

by W E Johns

  It was he who broke the silence that had fallen after Biggles’ sharp words to Louis. He did not address Biggles. Turning a baleful eye on Burton he demanded in a voice so silky that it held a threat: “Did you bring this man in here?”

  “No. No—no,” stammered the wretched Burton, almost in a panic. “I didn’t bring him in! I swear I didn’t. He must have followed me.”

  “You miserable liar,” sneered the tall man. “I told you to keep out, didn’t I?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s right. But I came back because I could pay for—”

  “Shut up!”

  Burton nearly collapsed. Clearly, he was in terror of the man.

  “He’s telling the truth,” put in Biggles, crossing to Ginger, who looked sick, or rather, dazed.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” asked the man behind the table, without moving.

  “I called to collect my young friend here,” answered Biggles, evenly. “What have you done to him?”

  “Why do you suppose I should do anything to him?”

  “As he wouldn’t have got into this condition by himself somebody must have done something to him.”

  “He had too much to drink. We don’t like that sort of thing here. It gives the place a bad name.”

  Biggles nodded. “I can understand that,” he said, dryly.

  “What do you think you are going to do?”

  “Take him along with me. I can take care of him,” answered Biggles, observing that Ginger was trying to get into a sitting position.

  “I don’t know who you are so I may have something to say about that,” was the reply, in a hard, calculating voice.

  “Very well. Say it, but make haste, because I’m in a hurry and my friend looks as if some fresh air wouldn’t do him any harm.” Biggles spoke casually, almost nonchalantly, hoping to bluff his way, with Ginger, out of a situation the nature of which, he was well aware, was more dangerous than the conversation suggested. And in this he might have succeeded had it not been for an interruption as unexpected as it was unwelcome.

  “Do you mind telling me who you are and why you should suppose your friend was here?” inquired the man who by this time Biggles was sure could only be the proprietor of the establishment—Del Grikko.

  This was a difficult question to answer, but as it happened the necessity did not arise, for at this juncture there came a sharp double knock on the door, a signal that spoke eloquently of urgency.

  The door had been locked by Louis, who now looked at his master for instructions.

  The knock was repeated.

  “Better see who it is, Louis,” said Del Grikko.

  Louis turned the key in the lock and opened the door cautiously, whereupon into the room strode the last man Biggles expected to see. It was Macula. He stopped dead, staring, when he saw Biggles standing there. He pointed an accusing finger. “What’s he doing here?”

  The atmosphere in the room tightened perceptibly. Del Grikko stiffened. His hand moved slowly towards a drawer in the table. “Do you know him?” he asked, in a tone of voice very different from the one he had hitherto employed.

  “I don’t know who he is, but I saw him this morning with that American cop, Ross,” declared Macula, harshly.

  “Oh, so that’s it,” murmured Del Grikko. “I should have guessed it.” He turned a smiling face to Biggles. But his eyes were not smiling. “So now we know where we are,” he said, softly. He glanced at Macula. “Where’s Ross now?”

  “He’s still in the Hôtel Pont-Royal. Or I thought he was. I left Lucien watching.” A thought seemed to strike Macula. “I don’t know how this one got out without me seeing him go.”

  “Let’s ask him,” said Del Grikko. “I understand Ross was staying at the Bristol. What was he doing at the Pont-Royal?”

  “He went there with this one.” Macula jabbed a thumb at Biggles. “I watched them go there together. I didn’t see either of them come out.”

  Del Grikko looked at Biggles. “How did you get out?”

  Biggles shrugged. “As this gentleman made it so obvious that he was following me, and as I dislike being followed, I used the service lift. Quite simple.”

  “You fool!” Del Grikko flung the words at Macula, who quailed. He turned back to Biggles. “Where’s Ross now?”

  “I wouldn’t know; and if I did I wouldn’t tell you.” Actually, this was nearer the truth than it might appear, for as Macula must have walked through the club room, obviously without seeing Eddie, he concluded he was no longer there.

  Del Grikko turned on Burton. “An hour ago you were flat broke. I know you were. Where did you get your money from?”

  “I gave it to him,” interposed Biggles.

  “For what?”

  “As one Englishman to another. He told me he had had nothing to eat all day.”

  Del Grikko’s lips parted in a cynical smile. He turned cold eyes to Burton. “You talk too much. I’ve told you before about trying to borrow money from clients. Did you tell this man you saw his friend brought in here?”

  “Oh leave him alone,” protested Biggles. “He meant no harm. I asked him if he’d seen a ginger-haired Englishman come in and he told me he’d seen him brought in here out of the way because he was drunk and incapable. What of it? He was right, wasn’t he? I didn’t really need his help. I should have come to the office to make enquiries, anyway. I don’t know what all the fuss is about. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll get along, taking my friend with me.”

  “Not so fast,” said Del Grikko smoothly. He looked at Burton. “Get out.”

  “But—”

  “I said get out.”

  “But I can pay—”

  Louis seized the wretched drug addict by the scruff of the neck and bundled him out of the room, slamming and locking the door behind him, so that, not counting Biggles and Ginger, there were three men in the room—Del Grikko, Louis and Macula.

  Quite calmly Del Grikko took an automatic from a drawer of his table and held it so that the muzzle pointed at Biggles. Then he hesitated. “Louis,” he said, “slip out and tell the band to make as much noise as possible and not stop till they get the order from me. That should drown any other noise.” He spoke casually, as if there was nothing unusual about such a command.

  Louis walked again to the door. As he reached it there was a sharp knock on the other side. It was an ordinary knock, not the special signal.

  After a momentary silence Del Grikko called: “Who is it?”

  “The police, open up,” was the answer, given authoritatively.

  Del Grikko’s mouth set in a hard line. “I’m busy. What do you want?” he called.

  “Open the door and I’ll tell you, unless you want me to break it down.”

  Del Grikko shrugged resignedly and put the gun back in the drawer. “All right, Louis, open the door,” he said, softly.

  Louis obeyed. He opened the door and Marcel walked in.

  To Ginger’s amazement and disgust Del Grikko became a different man. It was hard to believe that the smile he put on was not one of genuine pleasure. “Ah! Le capitaine Brissac,” he cried. “Bonsoir, monsieur le capitaine. You haven’t honoured us with a visit for a long time. We thought you must have forgotten us. What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing,” answered Marcel.

  “Close the door, Louis,” said Del Grikko. “We can’t hear ourselves speak for the noise the band is making.”

  “Don’t bother, I’m not staying,” returned Marcel.

  “But surely you’ll take a little glass of something!”

  “No thanks. I only looked in to collect these friends of mine. I was told they were here. They don’t know Paris very well and it’s so easy for strangers to find themselves in the wrong places. Don’t you agree, monsieur?”

  “Quite right,” confirmed Del Grikko. “I don’t know what things are coming to in Paris. One hears such stories of violence—”

  “That one can hardly believe them,” concluded Marcel, smi
ling sadly.

  Del Grikko indicated Ginger. “If this young man is a friend of yours you should warn him to keep sober. Hearing of the state he was in I had him brought in here for his own safety. He might have had his pocket picked.”

  “I imagined something of the sort must have happened,” replied Marcel coolly. “But we needn’t trespass on your hospitality any longer.” He looked at Biggles and Ginger. “Are you ready?”

  None of the men in the room moved as, in dead silence except for the discordant din made by the band, Marcel and the others walked out. As they crossed the hall to the outside door Biggles looked for Eddie, but could not see him anywhere. Observing that Alfondez had gone, too, for his female companion was now sitting alone, he concluded that Eddie had followed him.

  “Did Eddie come here with you?” Marcel asked Biggles, in a thin tight voice.

  “Yes, but I don’t see him here now. I asked him to follow someone and I think he must have done that.”

  “Better make sure. It would be fatal to leave him here alone. Macula’s here, and he, if not the others, would know what he was.”

  “I think he must have left before Macula came in,” said Biggles, who nevertheless made a last careful scrutiny of the clientele of the Laughing Horse before turning again to the door. The only person he recognized was Burton, slumped in a chair in an attitude of utter dejection. “Had Macula spotted Eddie as he came through the hall he would have told Del Grikko as soon as he entered the office,” he remarked.

  “Phew! Am I glad to be out of that?” muttered Ginger, as they walked quickly down the dark street to the well-lighted Place Pigalle with its teeming pedestrians.

  “You were taking a chance, Marcel, barging in alone like that,” went on Biggles.

  “Del Grikko didn’t know I was alone,” Marcel pointed out. “I might have been making a raid with a dozen men outside for all he knew. As you saw, he knows me. We have crossed swords before. I wasn’t happy about you going to that dangerous dive. It has a bad reputation, that place. Not seeing you in the hall I guessed where you would be.”

  “Thanks,” said Biggles. “Things were beginning to look ugly. Del Grikko had a gun in his hand when you knocked. He intended to use it, too, unless he was bluffing.”

  Marcel shook his head. “Men like that one don’t bluff. Had you no gun?”

  “No. I came to Paris to attend a conference, not start a private war on your underworld. I’ll carry one in future, though, while I’m here.”

  “It was not like you to walk into the cage without first seeing if the wolf was there. Why do you do this, hein?”

  “What else could I do? I had to get to Ginger. I knew he was inside. I couldn’t walk out and leave him there. Let’s face it. In sending him on what seemed a simple errand I made the blunder of underestimating the enemy. Where are we going now?”

  “To a nice little bistro I know just along the boulevard where we can talk. I want to know what happened.”

  “And I shall be interested to know how they spotted Ginger and got hold of him.”

  Five minutes later, in a quiet corner of Marcel’s bistro with food and wine in front of them Ginger was narrating his story of the cab with mirrors and the drugged coffee. “It was as easy as that,” he concluded, bitterly.

  “You see what sort of people they are,” murmured Marcel, seriously. “Nothing is left to chance.”

  When Biggles had told of how he had learned from Burton, a drug addict, that Ginger had been carried inside he went on: “I hope Eddie’s all right. I feel responsible for him, although when I told him to tail that Egyptian dope carrier I had of course no idea of what was going to happen.”

  “It’s not much use looking for Eddie tonight, I’m afraid. He might be anywhere.”

  “We may find him at the hotel, or a message from him, when we get back. I told him to contact me there as soon as he was able to do so.”

  “The evening wasn’t entirely wasted,” resumed Ginger. “I learnt one or two things.”

  “Such as?” inquired Biggles.

  “Del Grikko runs his own taxis, which are fitted with mirrors and two-way radio.”

  “That’s something to bear in mind. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Until Macula barged in Del Grikko had no suspicion that I might in some way be connected with the police.”

  “Then why did he pull you in?”

  “He thought I was working for an opposition gang— which means there must be one.”

  “Speaking of Macula, I wonder why he left his post at the Pont-Royal. We know he was relieved by another man, named Lucien, but I feel he may have learned from the hotel staff that Eddie had left. It was him they were watching. But you were saying something about an opposition gang, Ginger. What gave you that impression?”

  “Del Grikko asked me point blank if I was working for a man named Max. I’m pretty sure he believed that. I didn’t have to pretend ignorance. I told him straight I didn’t know what he was talking about, whereupon he mentioned what I took to be the man’s full name—let me see, what was it—Bronnitz. That’s it, Max Bronnitz.”

  Marcel looked up quickly. “Did he mention an address?”

  “No.”

  “Hm. I wonder...”

  “Does the name mean something to you?” asked Biggles.

  “I know of a man named Max Bronnitz,” answered Marcel, slowly. “But he runs an expensive restaurant off the Champs Elysées. There has never, as far as I know, been a breath of suspicion about him or his restaurant; but at this game one never knows. There could of course be another man of the same name in Paris.”

  “If there are two gangs at work there’ll be war going on between them, that’s certain,” declared Biggles.

  “That would save us some trouble.”

  “Not necessarily. If one gang wiped out the other it would leave the most powerful one on top for us to deal with.” Biggles looked at his watch. “I ought to be getting back to the hotel to see if there’s any news of Eddie. He should be able to take care of himself, so while I’m not exactly worried on his account I shall feel easier in my mind when I know he’s all right. When I asked him to tail that Gippy type, Alfondez, I didn’t realize we were so deeply involved as we are. But before I go let’s just run over the position as we see it now.”

  “Bon. Proceed, old fox.”

  “First, we know definitely that Del Grikko is running a dope shop, although whether that’s a sideline, or whether the Laughing Horse is merely a cover for a bigger business in dope, isn’t clear. I’m inclined to think the latter. He’s a dangerous type, anyway. Did you notice his eyes? As cold as those of a fish. He isn’t the head of the ring, of course. He’s merely a purveyor, a man who retails the stuff to the public, probably one of scores. The top men are seldom seen. He certainly isn’t the man who’s flooding America with doped chocolate drops.”

  “Then why his interest in Eddie?” queried Marcel.

  “I’d say that was because Eddie came to France. His purpose in coming here was known to the dope king because the United States press had made a story of it. Del Grikko would automatically be tipped off to keep an eye on him, which leads me to think Del Grikko might be the leading agent in Paris, perhaps in France.”

  “It would be a waste of time to raid his place after what’s happened,” said Marcel. “Any evidence of dope will by now have disappeared.”

  “That’s quite certain,” agreed Biggles. “What we really want to know now is where he gets the stuff. According to that poor addict, Burton, who spoke to me, it’s brought to the Laughing Horse by Alfondez. The question is, where does he get it. If Eddie is on his trail, as I hope he is, we may soon know, which would take us one step nearer the head of the gang. If it turns out there are two gangs in operation, that will complicate matters. If Del Grikko’s lot are the least powerful it means we’re on a false trail, although it could lead us to the other one.” Again Biggles glanced at his watch, and got up. “Now I must be getting along. We’ll get t
ogether again tomorrow when we’ve heard from Eddie.”

  “I left my car round the corner so I can run you home,” offered Marcel. Which presently he did, dropping them at the main entrance after a final word about the arrangements for the next day.

  In the hall Biggles went to the reception desk to ask if there were any messages for him.

  “Non, monsieur,” he was told, after the message rack had been investigated. “Some time ago a gentleman who had been waiting in the hall a long time asked if you were in—”

  “Do you mean he asked for me by name?”

  “I told him your name, monsieur. He described you exactly.”

  “I see.”

  “I rang your room, but getting no reply told him I thought you must have gone out.”

  “Thank you,” acknowledged Biggles, walking on to the lift.

  “That must have been either Macula, or the man who took over, Lucien,” he told Ginger as they went up. “It could be that was why Macula shot back in a hurry, to report to his boss that he knew my name and that Eddie had given him the slip. Not that it’s important now. Are you feeling all right?”

  “Pretty fair,” replied Ginger. “I shall be okay after a night’s sleep. I can still taste that dope they dished out to me—either that or the antidote they used to bring me round. It’s given me a mouth like a piece of sandpaper.”

  “Knock-out drops would naturally be part of their equipment,” said Biggles, as he closed the door.

  CHAPTER VI

  FRESH PLANS

  BIGGLES and Ginger were having breakfast, continental style, in their room at eight the following morning, Biggles getting worried at having heard nothing from Eddie, when the phone rang. He reached eagerly for the instrument. “This may be him,” he said tersely.

  “Yes, Biggles here,” he called. “Go ahead.” He then listened for some time without speaking, leaving Ginger to curb his impatience to know the news although he was able to deduce from an occasional chance interpolation by Biggles that it was Eddie at the other end of the line.