by W E Johns
At last Biggles spoke at some length. “You know, Eddie, the position is a bit difficult. As I told you before this is France, and we can’t do as we like. It’s up to Marcel. In any case I shall have to let my chief know what’s in the wind. Now the conference is over he’ll be expecting me back. Not that we’ve anything on as far as I know. I’ll tell you what. You stay where you are. I’ll have a word with Marcel and send Ginger down to join you with the latest news. Maybe Marcel will come down with him; perhaps fly him down in his own machine, in which case I could use mine to slip over to London. Where to meet? Yes, you’ll need a rendezvous. I suggest the Hotel Europe. That’s in the main street so it’s central. Okay. Let’s leave it like that. Stand fast till Ginger joins you. The enemy has got us all marked so be careful. Okay. Be seeing you. Goodbye for now.” Biggles replaced the receiver.
“That was Eddie,” he told Ginger, unnecessarily. “It’s a relief to know he’s all right.”
“He seemed to have a lot to say.”
“He had quite a night.”
“Where was he speaking from?”
“Marseilles.”
“Marseilles! Good lor’! Then he must have spent most of the night in the train!”
“He did. What happened was this. When Alfondez left the Laughing Horse he tailed him as I suggested. Alfondez walked to the Place Pigalle, picked up a taxi and went to a restaurant off the Champs Elysées called the Grand Vin.”
“I wonder could that be Bronnitz’s place. Marcel said it was off—”
“Could be, although that would imply Alfondez is playing the dangerous game of double spy—working for both dope groups. I’ll ask Marcel about it. Well, Alfondez had a meal and left the place somewhat hurriedly. In fact, Eddie says he lost sight of him in the restaurant for a few minutes and thought he had lost him. Anyway, by standing near the door he spotted him going out. With Eddie still on his trail Alfondez then took a taxi to the Gare de Lyon where he bought a ticket on the Rapide for Marseilles. Eddie did the same. They reached Marseilles about five o’clock this morning, poor Eddie having had a miserable night watching at the intermediate stations to make sure his man didn’t jump off. Speaking from memory there are only about five stops, but Eddie, afraid that the Marseilles ticket might have been a blind, took no chances, so he didn’t get any sleep. He had no luggage with him, of course, but he had money so he’s been able to fix himself up with some small kit.”
“Does that mean he’s lost Alfondez?”
“Not exactly. At Marseilles, still on the trail, he shadowed his man to the docks, where Alfondez boarded a craft flying the Panamanian flag named the Saphos, which, he says, is a black-painted job of about two hundred tons. It has a yellow band round the funnel. He says it looks like an old steam yacht that has been converted for commercial work. Alfondez hadn’t come ashore when the ship cast off, so that, as far as Eddie was concerned, was the end of the trail. Using his head he took a taxi to the top of the hill that overlooks the harbour and watched the Saphos out of sight. She took a course south-east.”
“He’d no idea where it was bound for?”
“Not a clue. Returning to the port he made a few discreet enquiries but all he could learn was that the Saphos docked about once a month, dropped a cargo of dried fruit—figs, raisins, currants and so on—and shipped a load of salt fish. The skipper is a Greek named Stavroulos. That’s all. Then he decided it was time he rang me up.”
“He did pretty well, considering.”
“Very well indeed.”
“And he’s still at Marseilles?”
“Yes. I’ve told him to wait there. His idea, since he can’t follow the Saphos, is to be there when she comes back, but we may be able to do better than that. After all, if Alfondez did come back with another consignment of dope he would in all probability take it straight to the Laughing Horse so we should only be back where we started from. The first question that arises is, is the Saphos a professional contraband runner or is Alfondez working on his own without the knowledge of the skipper? But we’ll discuss that later.”
“What are you going to do?”
“First, ring Marcel and tell him what we know. Then I shall slip home to ask the Air Commodore what he thinks about all this. He won’t be happy about us operating on foreign territory but it’s for him to decide whether we carry on or pack up. I shall point out, of course, that the show-down may not be on French soil. At the moment the Saphos is on the high seas, which are public property. Our next step must be to find out where she’s bound for, which should tell us where Alfondez picks up the dope. That’s the root of the business.”
“Dried fruits sound like the far eastern end of the Mediterranean; Greece or the Levant.”
“The Saphos is now on such a course. She might be going anywhere, but as her present course, if she continues on it, will take her round the leg of Italy we can rule out Genoa and the North African ports.”
Ginger stared. “Are you thinking of shadowing the Saphos?”
“Why not? A ship at sea is easier to follow than a man in a crowd—particularly if one has an aircraft.”
“But the Proctor isn’t equipped for long distance marine work.”
“I wasn’t thinking of the Proctor. If the chief’s willing, and if it’s okay with Marcel, I’d collect Bertie and bring him along in the Otter. You go to Marseilles and meet Eddie at the Hotel Europe. I’ll phone you there as soon as the Air Commodore decides what we’re to do. But let’s hear what Marcel has to say about it. He should be at his office by now.” Biggles reached for the phone.
Having been put through to Marcel he said: “We’ve heard from Eddie but I don’t think it would be wise to talk on the phone. Will you come round to us or shall we come to you? Fine.” Biggles hung up. “He’s coming round right away,” he told Ginger.
Ten minutes later Marcel walked in. “Bonjour, mes amis, what news?” he inquired, breezily.
“Before I give you our gen tell me this,” requested Biggles. “You said last night this man Bronnitz had a place near the Champs Elysées. Is it by any chance called the Grand Vin?”
“It was,” answered Marcel, with a curious expression.
“What do you mean—was. Isn’t he there now?”
“He’s dead. He was found last night, in his private room behind the restaurant. Someone had stuck a knife in his heart.”
Biggles whistled softly. “What time was this?”
“It must have been about half-past eight.”
“Then I think I can tell you who did the job.”
“Who?”
“Alfondez. The man who delivers the dope to Del Grikko. You’ll remember he was at the Laughing Horse last night. From there he went to the Grand Vin. I thought he was playing a double game, but I was wrong. It’s clear now that he’s in the Del Grikko outfit. Bronnitz must have been on the other side. That’s why he was handed his chips.”
“Where’s Alfondez now—do you know?”
“Yes, but he’s beyond your reach. At the moment he’s well out in the Mediterranean in a craft named the Saphos.”
“How do you know this?”
“From Eddie.”
“Where is he?”
“In Marseilles, where he arrived this morning on the heels of Alfondez. But let me tell you his story, then you’ll know as much as we do.” Having narrated Eddie’s adventures Biggles concluded: “He’s now waiting in Marseilles till we’ve decided what we’re going to do.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“That depends on you. What do you want us to do? Carry on or leave things in your hands?”
“Mais non. What do you want to do?”
“Follow the Saphos—or rather, Alfondez. It’s our only chance of getting the information we want, which is where the dope starts from.”
“If the Saphos is at sea it’s as much your affair as mine, old cabbage. You take over the controls and set the course. Where do we go?”
“All right, if that’s how you
feel. If my chief in London will give his permission I shall follow the Saphos to its next landfall, or if necessary to its final destination. We hold one trump card. Del Grikko doesn’t know Alfondez was shadowed to the Saphos so he’ll think we’ve lost the trail. I shall go home right away. If the Air Commodore is willing I shall come back with that old amphibian of ours, the Otter, which you may remember.”
Marcel nodded. “I remember very well. Has she an endurance range for what may be a long trip?”
“If necessary I could get fuel and oil at Malta or Cyprus. Meanwhile, Ginger is going to Marseilles to make contact with Eddie. Will you go with him or wait here?”
“I’ll go with him. I could fly him down in my machine.”
“That would suit me fine, because it would leave me the Proctor to take home.”
“Where is it—Le Bourget?”
“Yes.”
“Bon. My machine’s there. I can run you both along in my car. I’ll fly Ginger to Marseilles while you go to London. We wait for you at Marignane, on the marine side of the airport.”
“Capital. If the Air Commodore says no I’ll phone you there and let you know. Otherwise, expect me late this evening. Can you make arrangements for me to refuel?”
“But of course. We are of the International Police, n’est-ce pas?”
“There’s one last point I feel I ought to make,” said Biggles. “If you’d prefer to put a feather in your cap by waiting for a month for the Saphos to come back to Marseilles and then catching the murderer, Alfondez, red-handed with a load of dope—”
Marcel made a gesture of dissent. “It might not be Alfondez next time. It might be another man, one we don’t know. Besides, for fear of his life Alfondez wouldn’t tell us where he was getting the stuff so the big problem would remain.”
“I hoped you’d see it like that,” returned Biggles. “I’m all for going for the lot—or nothing. Now let’s get cracking. The Saphos should not have got so far that we can’t find her, but we’ve no time to waste. Ginger, you might take my kit with you to Marseilles. There’s no point in my taking it home and then bringing it back. I’ll go on and pay the bill. See you down in the hall.”
CHAPTER VII
BERTIE HAS A BRAINWAVE
AT seven o’clock the same evening the old but still airworthy Otter flying-boat amphibian of the Air Police Flight landed on the placid surface of the lagoon which is the base for marine aircraft at Marignane, the big airport of Marseilles. Cutting an ever-widening ripple from its bows it taxied on to a slipway where Marcel, Eddie and Ginger stood waiting, occasionally waving to show where they were.
The Otter came in, twin engines idling. Bertie threw a line ashore. Ginger caught it, pulled the aircraft alongside and made fast. The engines died. Biggles stepped out, followed by Bertie.
“So you made it,” said Ginger, smiling.
Biggles made the necessary introductions before he replied: “Yes. The chief was a bit sticky at first but at the end he left it to my discretion. Any news at this end?”
“Nothing fresh.”
“Have you had anything to eat lately?” inquired Marcel, always practical.
Biggles grinned. “Nothing to speak of. I’ve been on the move most of the day.”
“Then I suggest you go to the buffet and stoke up while I top up the Otter’s tanks.”
“Good idea.”
“Are you thinking of moving off this evening?”
“Definitely. We mustn’t let the Saphos get too far away.”
“What are you going to do if you find her?”
“Probably sit down on the water out of sight. I had a look at the sea as I came in. It looks as calm as a mill-pond. Obviously we can’t keep flying round the Saphos. They’d twig what we were doing. By the way, has Eddie been brought up to date with our news? I gave Bertie the gen as we flew down.”
Ginger answered. “Eddie knows as much as we do, and what we propose. He’s tickled to death about it. He thought he’d come to the end of the trail.”
“That, I fancy, is still some way ahead,” said Biggles, leading the way to the buffet, leaving Marcel and Ginger to service the aircraft. They had eaten while they were waiting. So for that matter had Eddie, but Biggles wanted a word with him.
“You’re sure you want to go with us on this trip?” he questioned. “Goodness only knows where we shall end up. It might be anywhere.”
“Sure I want to come,” declared Eddie. “I’d hate to be stuck here. And Paris—well, I seem to have made that the right place to get my throat cut.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I’m not saying it. We were all afraid your chief wouldn’t let you come.”
“He was a bit nervous about the trip, as he always is over anything unorthodox off British territory. But that’s understandable. He’s the man who gets the rap if anything goes wrong,” said Biggles, as they entered the buffet. “Now let’s eat. We can talk later. I’m anxious to push on and if possible locate the Saphos before sundown. We should be able to do that. Unless she has more powerful engines than your description of her suggests she shouldn’t have made more than a hundred miles.”
Little more was said for the next half-hour, at the end of which time Biggles paid the bill and returned to the Otter with the remark: “On jaunts of this sort it’s sound policy to eat while you have the chance. From now on we may for some time be living out of cans.”
“We’re all set,” announced Ginger, when they rejoined him and Marcel.
“Then let’s get airborne,” returned Biggles. “Marcel, you probably know the coast better than I do so you might sit with me in the ‘office’. Ginger, take over the radio. Bertie can do a spot of navigation. You’ll find the appropriate charts in the locker. Let’s go.”
Five minutes later the Otter was in the air, heading south-east over a calm blue sea with the sun dropping towards the misty coastline of Spain behind them. To starboard lay the open sea. On the port side ran the rocky indented shore of Southern France. Except for a few small craft close in there were few ships in sight. A transatlantic liner, probably Italian, was steaming west, and a tramp was ploughing a lonely furrow towards North Africa. These were of no interest to Biggles who, having taken the Otter to three thousand was beginning to scan the horizon ahead. He did not expect to see the Saphos yet, but with visibility near perfect, although the fight was beginning to fade, he was taking no chances of missing her.
Twenty minutes later a faint smudge of smoke caused him to alter course a trifle, but the ship turned out to be a thousand ton tramp heading south. After one or two similar false trails he turned back to his original course to overtake another, smaller craft. “That looks as if it might be her,” he told Marcel. “It’s on the right course.” He throttled back a little to lose height.
“It answers to Eddie’s description,” said Marcel, presently.
“Ask him to come forward and have a look at her.”
Eddie came forward. “It looks like her. Can you go any lower?”
“I can, but I don’t want to. If the Saphos is a regular contraband runner the people aboard her will be suspicious of any sort of craft coming close. However, I can afford to drop off a little more height if I alter course to give the impression that we’re going past her at an angle.”
A few minutes later Eddie said: “Yes, that’s her.”
“Good,” replied Biggles. “Ask Bertie to plot her course. If she’s heading straight for her next port of call, and I don’t see why she shouldn’t be, we may get an idea of where it is.”
“Okay.”
Biggles held straight on, overtaking the Saphos at an angle, until Eddie returned.
“All Bertie can say,” he reported, “is that she’s on a direct course for the Strait of Bonifacio, between Corsica and Sardinia. After that, if she doesn’t turn more easterly to Rome or Naples, she’ll be on her way to the Straits of Messina, round the toe of Italy.”
“Probably to the Levant. Burton
thought Alfondez was Egyptian but he might have been born anywhere in the Levant. Thanks, Eddie. That’s all for the moment. This looks like being a long trip.”
Marcel looked at Biggles with askance. “What do we do —hein? We can’t stay in the air all night.”
“We shall have to sit down on the water, if necessary on the open sea, and wait for tomorrow. There’s nothing else for it.”
“But why sit on the open sea? Have you forgotten that Corsica is French? Why not sit down at Ajaccio and continue the hunt in the morning after a comfortable night’s sleep? It would also be another opportunity to top up our tanks.”
“If you can arrange that, mon camarade, it would be the perfect answer to our question. The Saphos, supposing she goes through the Strait, may alter course, but she shouldn’t get so far that we wouldn’t be able to find her. We shall have to risk it, anyway. We’d lose sight of the Saphos presently in any case, when the sun goes.”
“Alors, on to Ajaccio, where I have friends.”
While this conversation had been going on Biggles had held the machine straight, so that the Saphos was now far behind them. A new compass course was obtained from Bertie and only a slight turn was necessary to put the Otter’s bows towards the objective.
Ajaccio, the capital of Corsica, was reached just as the sun was dropping into the western sea, and permission to land having been received the Otter was put down and made fast to a mooring to which they were directed. Formalities having been complied with, simplified of course by the presence of Marcel, Biggles said: “There’s no need for everyone to stay aboard. I shall stay, but there’d be more room in the cabin if some of you slept ashore; so anyone who feels inclined to sleep between sheets is at liberty to do so provided he’s here by the crack of dawn, at which time I intend to press on. The Saphos is making good time, which means she has plenty of power in her engine room, so if she doesn’t heave to for the night, and I can’t think of any reason why she should, by morning we shall have a bit of leeway to make up. We don’t want to lose her.”
