Biggles' Combined Operation

by W E Johns

  “What have you found, a consignment of chocolate drops?” asked Biggles, looking interested.

  “Not on your life. They must know we’re wise to that line of poison and have switched to caramels and bubble gum. These labels say manufactured in the United States—the lying hounds.”

  “You can thank your newspaper publicity for that. Put one of those labels in your pocket for evidence. Bertie, switch those lights off. There’s no need to tell Nicolinos where we are, if he doesn’t know already. Watch the door. We’ve seen all we need to see. Let’s go. This window is what we were looking for. It’s big enough to get through.”

  Eddie was still looking at the stuff on the tables. “Wait, Bertie,” he cried. “Are you going to leave this doped candy?” he asked Biggles.

  “What else can we do with it? We can’t take it with us.”

  “But it’s booked for the States. I’m not letting that happen, no sir.”

  “What do you suggest we do with it?”

  “Burn it. This should help.” Bertie held up a large bottle of colourless liquid.

  “What is it?”

  “Methylated spirit. They must use it for these burners. There’s plenty of it.”

  “You’ll set the whole place on fire.”

  “So what? We might as well let these rats know we’ve been here.”

  Biggles frowned. “That’s a drastic way of doing it. You still seem determined to make this an international front page newspaper story.”

  “I don’t care. It’d set this gang back a bit. To just walk out would leave ‘em free to start again somewhere else. You said that yourself.”

  For a moment Biggles hesitated. “Okay,” he agreed. “But make it snappy. Give him a hand, Bertie, while I have a dekko through the window to see where we are.”

  Having dragged a chair to the window to give him the necessary height he stood on it, and looking out saw it overlooked the side from which they had made their approach to the building. He whistled.

  The answering whistle came instantly. Ginger appeared. “Where are you?”

  “Up here—at the window. I thought I’d let you know we were all right. Stand fast. We shan’t be long.”

  “What goes on?”

  “This is the dope factory and Eddie wants to make a bonfire of it.”

  “Great work.”

  “Keep out of sight and don’t leave your position or we may have a job to find you.”

  “Okay.” Ginger retired to cover and Biggles turned back to the others.

  He saw they had been busy. On the bench had been piled a considerable amount of material; in fact, everything that could be found of an inflammable nature. Bertie was in the act of upturning a sack of opium on the heap. “That should help to make a good old fug,” he observed, cheerfully.

  Eddie poured on it the contents of three bottles. “All set?” he called to Biggles.

  “Yes. Buck up.”

  From his pocket Eddie produced a petrol lighter. Picking up a loose piece of paper he held it to the flame.

  At the precise moment he was about to toss it on the heap what Biggles had feared might happen, happened.

  There was a rush of footsteps outside the door. It was flung open. Nicolinos, a pistol in his hand, rushed in. There were other men behind him. Seeing what was happening he came to a dead stop, and thus, for a few seconds, like a film breakdown, everything became static. It leapt back into life with the same suddenness. Nicolinos, raising his gun, came on, with a shout “Stop them.”

  “Hold it,” shouted Biggles.

  Eddie tossed the burning paper on the bonfire. Blue flame, as the vaporizing spirit caught, spread swiftly.

  “Put that fire out some of you,” yelled Nicolinos, snapping a shot at Eddie, who ducked. The shot splintered an empty bottle. Eddie fired back, and missed.

  That started the shooting. Biggles and Bertie fired together. Nicolinos dropped his gun but kept on his feet. His supporters fired too, but were at the disadvantage of being in a bunch. Apart from that the fire, now making a good deal of smoke, must have distracted their attention since they had been ordered to put it out. As no one had been detailed by name to do this they all tried to reach it, and this led to confusion.

  “This way, Eddie,” shouted Biggles, still at the window.

  Bertie and Eddie began to retire on him. By this time the fire had really got hold and was filling the place with sickly, pungent, yellow smoke, so that it was not easy to see what was happening. Some of the men reaching the source of it tried to beat it out, but scattering the stuff did more harm than good. Sporadic shooting continued.

  “Get out. We’ll follow,” Eddie shouted to Biggles.

  At this juncture a bullet splashed lead along the stone wall by Biggles’ face, causing him to fall off the chair. “Keep off that chair,” he warned, getting up. “It’s too exposed. We’d do better to make for the door. Keep close.” He set off, keeping near the wall.

  There was a crash of a chair going over and Nicolinos loomed up through the murk. Close behind him was Alfondez’ brother. Then an extraordinary thing happened. Before anyone else could shoot, the Egyptian shot Nicolinos in the back. It was deliberate and they all saw it happen. There was another shot and the murderer crumpled. Whether this was intended, or happened to be a random bullet, was not clear. Biggles saw no one. “Keep going,” he said.

  By now the smoke was so dense that everyone was coughing. The lights, which had not been switched off, were no more than an orange glow that only made things more confusing. The heat was becoming intense.

  Biggles continued to grope his way towards the door as quickly as possible, regardless of the risk of being shot, for with the suffocating smoke filling everyone’s lungs there was a strong possibility of them all being choked by smoke from a fire of their own making.

  Not without difficulty he managed to find the door, more than somewhat relieved to find it open. He had feared one of Nicolinos’ men might have shut it and locked them in. As he blundered out into the passage two men who had been standing there ran off, to disappear in the murk, for there was plenty of smoke even there. He sent a shot after them to speed them on their way.

  Bertie and Eddie staggered out, coughing, and with tears running down their faces leaned against the wall to recover.

  “By thunder! You certainly started something,” Biggles told Eddie, cogently. “Let’s keep going.”

  Someone in the chapel started shouting, possibly for help.

  “Sounds like somebody can’t find the door,” observed Eddie. “As far as I’m concerned he can take his luck. I’m not going back in there; it took me all my time to get out. We didn’t invite ‘em in. If they choke with an overdose of their own dope that’s okay by me. They’ve been handing it out to other people long enough.”

  “I’m inclined to think you’re right,” replied Biggles. “There’s nothing we can do, anyhow. Let’s get out.”

  With his gun still at the ready he started walking quickly down the passage, making for the main entrance. After a quick reconnaissance at the corner, where a few more steps would take them past Nicolinos’ room, seeing nobody he went on. The door of the room, when they reached it, stood wide open. The light was on. There was nobody inside. On the writing table lay some papers with which Nicolinos had apparently been dealing when he was interrupted. Also, under a paperweight, were some banknotes, French francs and Greek drachmas, which he may have been in the act of counting.

  Biggles grabbed the papers, rolled them into a bundle and stuffed them in his pocket. “There may be something here that could be used as evidence,” he said crisply. “Some of these, as we haven’t any Greek money on us, may come in useful, too. Dirty money is better than none,” he added, grinning, as he helped himself to a few of the drachma notes that lay on top. “That’s enough.”

  As he turned to leave it could be seen there was a trickle of blood on the side of his face.

  “Here, I say old boy, are you hurt?” asked Bert
ie, anxiously.

  “No. A chip of stone, or something, from that shot which hit the wall when I was on the chair, caught me, that’s all. It stung a bit and knocked me off. Come on. We’re not out of the wood yet.”

  They went on to the exit. There was not a soul in sight. After the commotion inside the trance-like calm of the moonlit courtyard came almost as a shock. Still without seeing anyone they went out into the open, and skirting the wall hurried on to Ginger’s position.

  A soft whistle brought him out, saucer-eyed. “What the deuce—” he began.

  Biggles cut him short. “We’d better get out of sight before we start nattering,” he said, shortly, striding on. “Under those trees will do. Let me get my breath back. It was pretty warm inside there, in every sense of the word.”

  He went on to the inky shadows cast by the tangle of fig trees to which he had referred and sank down, mopping his face. “Phew! Stiffen the crows!” he went on, as the others sat beside him. “What a scramble!” He looked at Eddie with mock reproach. “I’m beginning to think you’re a dangerous fellow to go out with. You’ve been pining for action. Now you’ve had a basinful I hope you’re happy.”

  Eddie grinned as he took a cigar from his pocket and bit off the end. “Aren’t you?”

  “Not entirely.”

  Eddie looked surprised. “Why not? I’d have said we’d done a good night’s work.”

  “If this place burns out there’ll be some questions asked.”

  “Aw shucks! Forget it. Since when has stone burned?”

  “I hope you’re right, because if you happen to be wrong you may find you started a bigger fire than you intended.”

  “Listen, buddy. When a guy shoots at me I shoot back. As long as what’s inside burns out I don’t care what happens to the rest,” declared Eddie, unrepentantly. “There’s one lot of caramels that won’t reach the States, anyhow.”

  “I must say they made a jolly good fug, old boy,” put in Bertie, cleaning his eyeglass with his handkerchief. “By the way, did you see that murdering rascal shoot Nicolinos in the back?”

  “I did,” answered Biggles.

  “Was it an accident? Did he think—”

  “No.” Biggles shook his head. “It was deliberate.”

  “Sure it was,” confirmed Eddie. “Did you see the expression on his face? He looked crazy.”

  “Why would he do a thing like that?” questioned Bertie.

  “If you’re asking for my opinion I’d say it was for revenge,” answered Biggles. “If, as I believe, Alfondez was shot behind those cypresses—”

  “Somebody was shot there, that’s certain,” interposed Ginger.

  “How do you know?”

  “After you’d gone inside I saw a body being carried away.”

  “From where?”

  “Those cypresses near the gate. Gave me a fright. I thought it might be one of you.”

  “If that was Alfondez he must have been shot by Nicolinos’ orders,” resumed Biggles. “His brother would know that and he grabbed his chance to pay off the debt. That’s the obvious answer. Alternatively, the brother may have been afraid he’d be next on the list for bumping off if Nicolinos suspected it was he who’d told Alfondez that he’d been put on the spot. That may have been what the argument was about. It continued in Nicolinos’ room, but broke off when someone brought the news that Bertie had hopped it. Did you bring any spare clips of cartridges, Ginger?”

  “Two.”

  “Give me one. My gun’s empty.”

  “I’m still waiting to hear what went on in there,” complained Ginger, as he passed a clip.

  Biggles told him, very briefly.

  “And now what?” asked Ginger, at the end. “Isn’t it time we were getting back to Marcel? He’ll be getting worried.”

  “He’s not the only one,” stated Biggles.

  “If you’re worried about Nicolinos, forget it,” said Eddie, grimly. “He’s had what was coming to him. That goes for the whole pack. What has happened here is a sight better than trying to do the thing the official way. That gets you nowhere with these thugs, who know every trick of the law and have the money to employ the best lawyers. You’ve got to be tough. That was the only way we could deal with our gangsters in the States, and, as you know, we had some bright ones. Shoot first and talk afterwards. That’s how. Officially we might get a rap over the knuckles for this, but nobody’d be sorry.”

  “I wasn’t thinking so much of that,” returned Biggles. “As far as Nicolinos is concerned I couldn’t care less.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  TO FINISH THE JOB

  EDDIE looked at Biggles curiously. “What’s on your mind, pal?”

  “After what’s happened here my common sense tells me to put a lot of water between myself and this island, and then forget about it. Whatever you may think, Eddie, if this little frolic ever came before an international court we wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.”

  “If anyone accused us he’d only turn the spotlight on himself, and on what’s been going on here.”

  “Admittedly, and that’s our best hope of the thing being hushed up; because, believe you me, if this story got out, the newspapers in the countries that don’t like us would twist it into a powerful piece of propaganda.”

  Said Ginger, “If you feel like that what are we waiting for?”

  “Frankly,” replied Biggles, smiling curiously, “it occurs to me that having gone so far we might as well go the whole hog and finish the job properly. The stink, if a complaint was lodged against us, would be no worse. Let me put it like this. When the racketeers running those ships learn what has happened up here they’ll simply sail away and start somewhere else. That’s almost a certainty. I have a feeling that while Nicolinos may have been the big noise here, on this island, there was somebody behind him. If those ships failed to reach their home ports that somebody would have to do some hard thinking about what really happened here.”

  “Say, brother, now you’re talking,” declared Eddie, enthusiastically.

  Biggles cocked an eye on him. “Haven’t you had enough action for one night?”

  “Not while there’s this sort of work to be done.”

  Ginger stood up and stared in the direction of the monastery gate, where could now be heard a considerable noise of excited talking. “What’s all that about?” he asked.

  “People arriving from the village to goof at the fire, I imagine,” surmised Biggles. “A fire will always draw a crowd. The smoke would be seen from the village.”

  “That should suit us fine and dandy,” said Eddie. “If everyone down below is coming up, it should leave the way clear for us to go down.”

  “There’s something in that,” agreed Biggles. “For a start let’s get into a position to check the ships are still in the harbour. If the crews have come up here it should, as you say, suit us fine.”

  “What is it, exactly, that you have in mind, old boy,” Bertie wanted to know.

  “Well, it’s only a broad idea at the moment, but if by some sort of accident one of those ships caught fire lying so close together they’d both go. That should put the lid on the whole dirty business for quite some time.”

  “We ought to be able to arrange a little accident like that,” said Bertie, brightly.

  “You’ve been on the Saphos. I take it she’s a wooden ship?”

  “She is, and pretty old wood too, old boy. From what I saw of her I’d say she’s coming apart at the seams with dry rot—if you get my meaning.”

  “Let’s have a look at things, anyway.” Keeping behind the trees Biggles led the party to a position that brought the main gateway of the monastery, and the road leading to it, under observation. A little crowd had gathered, and more people, including several children, were arriving. All were staring at the building, although as a matter of fact the fire, which was still confined to the chapel, appeared to be dying down, presumably because the fuel available had been consumed. But there was still a good de
al of smoke hanging about. A little group of men stood alone, and these Biggles took to be members of the gang. Two wore seaman’s caps and jackets.

  Bertie touched Biggles on the arm. “You see the stoutish lad with the whiskers? That’s Stavroulos, skipper of the Saphos. I saw him when I was on board.”

  Biggles nodded. “Then it looks as if some of the ships’ companies have come up here.” He moved on to a fresh position, one which commanded a view of the harbour. The two ships were still there. Beyond, on the open sea, several small sailing vessels were making for port under full sail.

  Biggles frowned, and turned an eye to the moon, across which a wisp of cloud was drifting. “I have an idea why those caïques are making for home so early,” he said, thoughtfully. “It can only mean there’s weather on the way. Living here they know the signs. We shall have to get a move on.”

  Making a detour round the cypresses where Alfondez was shot he emerged on the track that led to the village and started walking down it.

  “We shall be seen if we keep to the road,” Ginger pointed out.

  “There’s no other way,” answered Biggles. “This is no time or place for cross-country work. Actually, with so many people about I don’t think it would matter much if we were seen—anyway, by the local folk. They won’t know who we are.”

  They did in fact meet several people, both men, women and children who, from their dress, particularly the men’s baggy trousers, were obviously local Greeks from the village. One or two of them spoke, probably asking questions about the fire, but as no one could speak the language Biggles merely waved a hand and walked on, slowing the pace as they neared the village.

  It was a typical Greek village of the poorer sort, comprising a huddle of white, flat-topped houses behind a single street facing the rather ramshackle wharf that formed the waterfront. At the near end of this was a slipway on which had been drawn up several small home-made-looking rowing boats. There were one or two shops along the front, but as they had closed for the night the type of merchandise they sold could not be determined. All lettering was of course in the native language, with two incongruous exceptions. One was a weather-beaten poster carrying the words “Wild Woodbines” and the other was a tin sign displaying in large letters the single word “Shell”. The only bright light came from the window of what was evidently a tavern, and the only people in sight were three men who stood talking at a corner nearby.