by W E Johns
The man who had entered, after a casual remark, approached him with a black scarf in his hands.
“Now what’s the idea!” exclaimed Bertie, stepping back.
“Merely a precaution.”
“Against what? What are you going to do with that rag?”
“I am sorry, but I must ask you to submit to being blindfolded. It won’t be for long. It is always our practice with strangers.”
Still protesting Bertie permitted the scarf to be put over his eyes. He realized that to argue would only lead to trouble. With a hand on his shoulder he was guided to the deck and then across a gangway to the shore. A short walk and he found himself standing against an animal. “Here, I say, what’s all this?” he cried.
“A mule. Get on. You’ll find it easier than walking.”
“Well, I don’t know,” muttered Bertie, as he straddled the beast. “This certainly is a queer do. I hope by the time we’re finished with this pantomime nonsense it will have been worth my while.”
“That will depend on you,” was the smooth reply.
The mule moved forward. Bertie could hear others. He could only conclude that the party was going some distance. In the event it turned out to be something in the order of two miles, as near as he could judge, all of it up hill, often steep, with frequent sharp bends. The soft clatter of unshod hoofs on rock and the rattle of rolling stones told him that the going was rough. He visualized a narrow track winding up the side of a mountain.
The ride ended on a short stretch of level ground, still hard underfoot. He was invited to dismount, which he did.
“This won’t be needed now,” said a voice, and the bandage was removed from his eyes.
Whatever he may have expected to see, and he was prepared for something unusual, it was far from anything he had imagined.
He was in the paved courtyard of an imposing stone building, flooded with moonlight. Pillars and arches in the manner of cloisters and Gothic tracery windows indicated a religious establishment of some sort. A line of slim, pointed Mediterranean cypresses cast oblique shadows, coal black, across the yard, where weeds flourished among the stones. A solemn silence was broken only by the deep breathing of the mules and the soft patter of their hoofs as they were led out. Far away and below glistened the sea, giving the place a strange feeling of remoteness and enveloping it in an atmosphere of unreality. The weatherworn stones breathed antiquity.
Bertie forced a chuckle to cover his astonishment. “Oh look here, I say, don’t tell me we’re going to church,” he said.
“Not exactly,” returned his guide, coldly. “Come with me.”
“Is this where your manager has his office?” inquired Bertie, as they walked forward.
“Yes.”
“Queer place to run a business from, isn’t it—if I may say so.”
“It suits us,” was the curt reply.
“I should jolly well think so. Suit a lot of people—”
“Don’t talk so much.”
Bertie followed the speaker, with a companion walking close behind, through a massive portal that gave access to the building. A short walk down a stone-flagged corridor, lighted by a single electric light bulb in the roof, and the guide halted at a door. He tapped on it. A voice spoke. He opened it, and Bertie, blinking after the dim exterior, was ushered into a well-lighted room, comfortably, almost luxuriously furnished.
Seated in a leather-upholstered arm-chair by a table on which stood bottles and a syphon, smoking a large cigar, was a man, a big commanding figure of a man who in a city might have been a prosperous company director. His face, clean-shaven, was full; his expression, benign. There was something about him, a poise, a confidence, that told Bertie without any doubt whatever that he was in the presence of the boss.
“Sit down, Lord Lissie,” invited the man, in perfect English although with a slight accent. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Colonel Nicolinos. Can I offer you a drink?” Then, in an aside to the guide, “You’d better stay, Ali.” Bertie sat on the nearest chair.
“What would you like? Champagne?”
“I would prefer a glass of sherry.”
Nicolinos indicated the bottle. “Help yourself, and make yourself comfortable. You may be here for some time. There are some questions I would like to ask you.” He spoke quietly, calmly, with not even a hint of hostility.
“I shall be happy to answer them, Colonel,” said Bertie, well satisfied with this courteous reception. He sipped his drink.
“You were picked up from the sea by a ship of mine named the Saphos. Isn’t that so?”
“I was certainly picked up by the Saphos but of course I had no idea of who she belonged to.”
“Where were you going when you came down in the sea?”
“Nowhere in particular.”
Nicolinos raised his eyebrows. “Are you telling me you didn’t know where you were going?”
“Strange though it may seem that is so. I had no fixed objective in mind.” This was, of course, the truth.
“I see. You were just—er—cruising around the Aegean, haphazard, so to speak.”
“More or less.”
“Were you looking for something?”
“When I’m flying I’m always looking at something.”
Nicolinos’ eyelids dropped the merest trifle. “I didn’t say at something. I said for something.”
Bertie affected an expression of perplexity. “Does it matter? Why all these questions, anyway?”
Nicolinos drew heavily on his cigar. “It might matter a great deal.”
“To whom—you or me?”
“To both of us.” Nicolas’s’ voice took on a different tone. “Now let us stop fencing and get down to facts. You force me to be blunt. Was your adventure really an accident or did you deliberately put yourself adrift for a particular purpose?”
This was a difficult one to answer and Bertie could only dissemble. “Why should I do such a thing?”
“That’s what I’m asking you. Please remember I’m asking the questions, which, I may say, are in your own interest. I’m anxious not to misjudge you, and make a mistake I might afterwards regret. Tell me, frankly, what brought you to these islands?”
So that was it, thought Bertie, swiftly. He had been suspect all the time.
“It may help you to make up your mind, and save prolonging this interview unduly, if I tell you I know your occupation, or at any rate for whom you were working until recently. Are you still on the strength of the Air Police Service of Scotland Yard?” Nicolinos still spoke quietly.
To show no sign of surprise at the explosion of this bombshell was beyond Bertie’s capacity. “How did you work that out?” he inquired.
Nicolinos waved his cigar with a gesture which, for the first time, indicated the vanity which comes to most men who find themselves in a position of power. “It was not very difficult,” he said suavely. “Surely you didn’t overlook a detail like the radio aerial on the Saphos? I was informed of what had happened. After that I had merely to radio my agent in London for full particulars of Lord Lissie. His report has just come in. It was for this you were kept waiting before I had you brought here.”
“If you know this why bring me here?”
“Because, for security reasons which must be obvious to you, it is vitally necessary that I should know just how you managed to locate my headquarters in an area as remote as this. If it was carelessness or indiscretion on the part of one of my employees disciplinary action will be taken. You were not cruising about haphazard as you have suggested. It could hardly have been guesswork that brought you here. You were acting on information, and that, I admit, disturbs my peace of mind. Now tell me, by whom were you told of this place?”
Bertie considered the question. He was under no misapprehension about the situation that had developed. It was, all too clearly, a desperate one. The almost cordial attitude Nicolinos had adopted could be ignored. Behind the pose of calm indifference he was an unscrupulous croo
k who would allow nothing to stand in his way. Doing what he was doing it could not be otherwise. Now he was obviously and genuinely concerned about the weak spot in his organization that had enabled the police to pick up his trail. That, as he had himself admitted, had to be remedied, and there was no doubt about what that meant.
He, Bertie, knew what Nicolinos wanted to know, and for that one reason alone he had been treated as he had. It was the old story of the iron hand in a velvet glove. Once Nicolinos had the information he wanted he would be given short shrift; wherefore he resolved to employ deceptive tactics as the best means of delaying what would happen when Nicolinos had no further use for him. He did not even consider the possibility of help from Biggles, who might be hundreds of miles away. Confined in the cabin of the Saphos he had neither seen nor heard the Otter, although there was a chance of it being in the vicinity.
“Well,” prompted Nicolinos, impatiently. “I’m waiting.”
It may have been as much to cause general trouble as to stir up Nicolinos’ evident uneasiness about a possible lapse on the part of one of his staff that Bertie said: “You have a man working for you by the name of Alfondez?”
Nicolas’s started. “Yes.”
“Ask him,” suggested Bertie, evenly.
“Did you see him before you met him on the boat?”
“I know where he was, if that’s what you mean.”
“Where was he?”
“In Paris.”
“When?”
“A few days ago.”
“Where, in Paris?”
“He was in a night club called the Laughing Horse, run by a chap called Del Grikko. Later, I believe, he bumped off a man named Bronnitz, in the Champs Elysées, by sticking a knife in him.”
Nicolas’s stared. “Do you mean Bronnitz is dead?”
“As dead as he ever will be.”
Nicolinos was silent for a moment, leaving Bertie with the impression that in volunteering this information he had dropped what he would have called a “clanger”.
Nicolas’s took a deep breath. “I’ll speak to Alfondez immediately. Meanwhile you can tell me the rest of this interesting story.”
“I’d like to think about that,” returned Bertie, still playing for time.
“Very well,” agreed Nicolinos. “But don’t be too long about it. I will give you until tomorrow—say, nine o’clock.”
“And if I fail to reach a decision?”
Nicolinos smiled. “Surely that question is quite unnecessary. In that case we shall have to try to jog your memory.” He made a signal to the guide. “Take Lord Lissie to his quarters and send Alfondez to me,” he ordered.
Bertie followed the guide out of the room.
CHAPTER XI
A STRANGE ENCOUNTER
WHEN those on the Otter were ready for the overland reconnaissance the order of individual positions was resolved. It fell out that Marcel was to remain in charge of the aircraft. Biggles and Eddie were to go in front together, followed by Ginger who, always keeping them in sight at a distance dictated by the conditions encountered, was also to guard the rear to check that the leaders were not being followed.
There had been a certain amount of discussion about this arrangement. Said Eddie, sceptically, lighting one of the cigars he habitually smoked: “Say, are you sure all this Indian-scout stuff is really necessary?”
“If I didn’t think so I wouldn’t suggest it,” replied Biggles.
“But what have we to be afraid of? We’ve as much right on this island as anyone.”
“You may take that view, but there might be others here who wouldn’t agree,” retorted Biggles. “Have you an alternative plan?”
“Sure. How about me walking into that village place and asking ‘em direct what’s going on. That might save a heap of trouble.”
A frown lined Biggles’ forehead. “It might also cause a heap. Are you serious?”
“Sure I’m serious.”
“I see,” said Biggles evenly. “You’d just march down and say you were a cop looking for dope?”
“Why not? I can take care of myself. I’ve gotta gun. I’m an American citizen, ain’t I? They wouldn’t dare touch me.”
Biggles smiled sadly. “Don’t fool yourself, Eddie. Nerve is a good thing to have with you on these occasions but there’s no need to throw it about unnecessarily. As I’ve told you before, you’re not in your own country now.”
“We’re tough where I come from.”
“Meaning that Europe is not so tough. Forget it. If that ship is what we think she is and you started throwing your weight about you’d be flat on your face without knowing what had hit you. You please yourself what you do. You’re a free agent. For my part I like to know the depth of the water before I dive in off the top board. That’s why I’m in favour of having a dekko at this set-up from the outside before I jump into it.”
“Okay. Like you say,” agreed Eddie, cheerfully. “I just thought my idea would save time.”
“And mine might save us from being perforated with bullet holes. Let’s say I’m nervous and leave it at that. Talking of guns, you might get a couple from the locker, Ginger. We might as well be ready should it come to a show-down. Now let’s move off.” Biggles turned to Marcel. “Goodness knows when we’ll be back, but if we’re not here by dark keep an eye on the hill for light signals.”
“Entendu.”
It was late afternoon when the shore party landed on the massive stones of the ancient wharf, still quivering with heat from having been exposed all day to the sun. Without much difficulty Biggles made his way through the olives that occupied the crumbling terraces. At this stage Ginger remained with the others, fearing to lose them in the tall weeds that flourished between the trees. At the end of the top terrace Biggles struck what he said he thought was an old goat track, and as it led in the right direction they took advantage of it. This made for easier going and Ginger dropped behind a little, pausing from time to time to cast an eye over the sun-drenched slopes above them. He saw nothing of interest. The place gave the impression of seldom, if ever, being visited. He was able to quench his thirst with grapes snatched in passing from vines that often supported themselves on low-growing fig or olive trees. But these, as the track climbed higher, gave way to dwarf scrub oaks. There were few birds and no animals. The big grasshoppers that could jump so far were common. Once he saw a scorpion basking in the setting sun and made a mental note to refrain from handling rocks without a close inspection. Those were the only living creatures he saw on the way to the ridge where he thought it would be possible to see the village and its little harbour.
This turned out to be a false impression. Watching, he saw Biggles and Eddie reach it, pause, and then go on again. He discovered the reason when he climbed to the skyline. The ground dropped away a little only to rise again, as so often happens on mountains, to a higher ridge. To his annoyance and disappointment this happened several times. However, he knew the final one had been reached when he saw Biggles sink down in the brush and take out his binoculars.
Finding a seat on a shelf of rock Ginger watched them, and the surrounding hillsides, prepared for a wait and glad of the rest.
After a while Biggles came back, alone, to join him. “We can see the harbour and the ships but they’re too far off in this tricky light for details to be picked out,” he reported, sitting on the rock. “Both ships are still there. They seem to be doing nothing, although one or two people are moving about. There’s a better track not far below us, serving some isolated cottages on the side of the hill, but we couldn’t use it in daylight without a risk of being seen. That’s why we stopped.”
“What flag does the other ship fly?” asked Ginger.
“I’m not sure that she’s flying one. It wouldn’t move in this dead calm. The only way we might get her nationality is from her name, if we could get close enough to see it. Eddie wants to go on and have a closer look. In fact I had a job to stop him. The possibility of youngsters in his c
ountry being fooled into becoming drug addicts as part of a deliberate plan to sabotage America’s man-power has got him hopping mad. If he had his way I believe he’d barge in and shoot up the place. That might be a good thing. Some of our own teenagers at home are pretty wild even now; imagine what they’d be like if they had their brains rotted with dope.”
“That’s not a nice thought,” muttered Ginger.
“It could happen. Eddie is convinced that the big ship down there is a depot ship supplying smaller craft with drugs for general distribution to the Western Alliance— particularly, of course, the States, which is his main concern.”
“He could be right.”
“Even so, we’ve no right to take the law into our own hands. Our proper course now would be to report what we suspect to the Narcotics Intelligence Bureau.”
“What would they do?”
“Make a complaint to Greece about what, without them knowing it, may be happening on their territory. They would no doubt send a committee to investigate—”
“And we should have had all our trouble for nothing,” put in Ginger, scornfully. “By the time the investigators got here the place would have been nicely tidied up for their reception. You know that as well as I do.”
“I wouldn’t deny it.”
“I think Eddie’s right,” declared Ginger. “You’ve one hope of stifling this stinking racket and that’s to wipe it out yourself before the stinkers running it get wise to what we know.”
“That would mean sticking our necks out for our own government to lop off.”
“So what? What would it matter as long as these thugs were put out of action? Whatever may be said officially to us any government would secretly approve the liquidation of a dope ring.”
“There’d be a howl about what would be called foreign interference.”
“Let ‘em howl. If Eddie’s so keen to go down why not let him?” advised Ginger. “Sooner or later we shall have to go if only to find out what’s become of Bertie. He must be down there somewhere, perhaps locked up in the Saphos. Anyhow, there’s not much point in sitting here if we’ve gathered all the information available from this distance.”
