by W E Johns
“Anything wrong?” questioned Ginger anxiously, from behind.
“Take a look.”
Ginger looked, and was speechless with dismay. It was not so much that lights were showing at several windows of the villa. It was the lawn, or what had been the lawn. It was no longer the flat area of short grass they had naturally expected to find. Unattended, it had become an overgrown jungle of rank weeds and bushes.
“I suppose we should have been prepared for this,” muttered Biggles, bitterly.
“How are we to measure distances accurately through all this stuff?”
“We shall have to try.”
Then, as they crouched there, another hazard presented itself. Round the end of the villa, within thirty yards of them, strolled a man in uniform, a rifle on his shoulder. At the same time another man, similarly accoutred, appeared from the opposite end. They met at the bottom of the steps that led up to the front door. After a casual conversation lasting about five minutes each man turned about and retraced his steps.
“So there’s a guard on duty,” breathed Biggles. “Guarding what, I wonder? The place must be a naval or military post, or maybe a coastguard station. It’s going to make things awkward. However, let’s get on with the job. We shall have to work quietly, ready to drop flat if those men come back, as I imagine they will at regular intervals.”
With eyes and ears alert they moved forward, taking the easiest course through the shrubs. In this way, without anything happening, they reached a point about ten yards, as near as could be judged, from, and directly in front of, the steps.
“Pelegrinos gave the distance as ten yards and only a foot under the ground, so the box can’t be far away,” whispered Biggles. “You keep watch while I probe.” So saying he went to work.
Time passed. There were several false hopes as the steel rod struck a root or a stone. Twice operations had to be suspended on the appearance of the guards, who behaved as before. As soon as they had gone the work was resumed. At last the rod struck something which Biggles thought felt and sounded like metal. Dropping the probe he started to dig, tearing away roots with his hands. Having removed the top soil he dropped on his knees and groped, throwing out handfuls of dirt. “This is it,” he panted. “I’ve got the handle.”
He started to pull, but stopped, falling flat, when somewhere near at hand words of command were rapped out. They waited. No one appeared. “Must be changing the guard,” said Biggles tersely, returning to his task. Again on his knees, hands reaching down into the hole he had made, he pulled hard, straining, as if the box was heavy. With the top of it just showing above the surface he went over backwards, apparently still holding it. There was a metallic rattle.
“What’s happened?” asked Ginger breathlessly.
“The bottom’s fallen out of the box. Rotten with damp, or salt in the ground.”
“You mean—”
“The coins are at the bottom of the hole.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Get ‘em out.”
“We’ve nothing to put ‘em in.”
Biggles had already flung off his jacket. He now took off his shirt, tying the sleeves at the wrists to form, as it were, two bags. “Hold this open while I get the boodle,” he ordered.
That was now the position. Ginger holding open the sleeves of the shirt, first one and then the other for balance, while Biggles, lying flat, brought up the coins in his hands and dropped them in. The difficulty was to do this without making a noise. The coins would chink together. The sleeves began to bulge.
“This is going to bust open any minute,” warned Ginger.
“Nearly finished.”
“Leave the rest.”
“I’m not leaving one if I can help it... there you are, I think that’s the lot.”
Again they both went flat as a new danger threatened. Somewhere a man was calling and whistling, obviously to a dog. Ginger froze. He had no fear of being seen. What he was afraid of was the dog’s nose.
Presently a guard appeared, the dog at his heels. He met his companion, turned about, and had nearly reached the end of the villa when the dog growled. The man said something to it in a tone of voice that suggested he was not interested and walked on. The dog stood still. When it moved. Ginger, peering through a bush, lost sight of it. “Let’s get out of this,” he breathed urgently. “You go first. I’ll guard the rear.” Abandoning the tools the retreat towards the cliff path began, on all fours. Ginger dragging the shirt. All seemed to be going well and they had nearly reached the top of the narrow descent when the dog appeared. It was in fact a hound of sorts. It raised its head and bayed. Biggles whipped out his gun. To Ginger he snapped: “Go on. Don’t stop for anything. Leave this to me.” Ginger slung his awkward burden over a shoulder and hurried on, leaving Biggles and the hound facing each other from a distance of a few yards, the animal prancing and making a lot of noise yet for some reason hesitating to attack. Such an uproar could not fail to be heard at the villa, as was proved by several voices calling to each other. The front door was thrown open letting out a stream of light and revealing a figure in a uniform resplendent with gold braid. Biggles was more concerned with a man who came crashing towards him shouting, although what he was talking about, and to whom. Biggles, not understanding the language, had no idea. He was presumably the owner of the dog, for it stopped baying and bounded to meet him.
Biggles snatched the opportunity to back swiftly to the path. As he took the first step down a firearm flashed and a bullet ploughed through the bushes. Biggles fired a shot into the air, his purpose being to let the man know he was armed and so keep him at a distance; which it did, for the man disappeared as he ducked into the bushes.
Biggles bolted down the track at a speed which in ordinary circumstances he would have said was dangerous. What was happening above he could now only guess, but judging from the commotion a general alarm had been raised, as was inevitable. When he was half-way down he heard Bertie start the engines, and by the time he had reached the bottom the machine had come right in, with Ginger holding it by the bows to prevent it from bumping against the rocks.
“Get aboard,” rapped out Biggles as he dashed onto the scene.
Ginger obeyed. Biggles followed and thrust the aircraft clear, none too soon, for loose pieces of rock bouncing down the cliff told their own story. One or two shots were fired, but the shooting was wild and they did no damage.
The end was in the nature of anti-climax. In the scramble into the cabin Ginger tripped over the shirt and fell. One of the sleeves burst, scattering coins all over the floor. Biggles was shouting to Bertie, although by that time the machine was churning round to face the open sea. Within a minute its keel was tearing a gash in the surface of the tranquil water. Another, and it was airborne, turning as it climbed, to present a difficult target. If the aircraft was fired on nothing was known of it.
Biggles, his face streaked with grime and sweat, looked at Ginger and grinned. “How about that for a picnic? Get me a drink. I need one. Then you’d better pick up those tiddlywinks.” He went forward and joined Bertie in the cockpit.
[Back to Contents]
THE CASE OF THE OLD MASTERS
BIGGLES, at his desk at Air Police Headquarters, replaced the intercom telephone receiver and turned questioning eyes to his assistant pilots who were in the office. “Any of you been in mischief?” he inquired seriously.
There was a chorus of denials.
“That was the Air Commodore speaking,” explained Biggles. “The Chief Commissioner is with him and wants to see me. That’s never happened before. I wondered if he’d come to rap my knuckles. See you presently.” He left the room.
His fears were soon dispelled. “Sit down,” invited the Chief as Biggles entered. “I want to ask you a question,” he went on as Biggles obeyed. “As you must know there has recently been a new angle of crime to give a lot of people headaches. I’m referring to the increasing number of thefts of valuable works of art. Th
ere was another case last night when three priceless paintings disappeared from a private exhibition in London. From the way these raids are carried out it’s almost certain they’re the work of one specialized gang, and behind them is a man not only with brains but with a considerable knowledge of pictures.The first question to arise is, where are these paintings going?”
“I can only suppose, sir, there must suddenly be a market for them somewhere, which suggests they’re all going to the same receiver.”
“I agree. But no ordinary receiver would buy an object that could so easily be recognized. Gold can be melted down. Gems can be reset. But there is nothing you can do with a picture except leave it as it is, for only in its original condition has it any value. I can’t imagine anyone in this country showing, much less trying to sell, a well-known painting that had been stolen.”
“They may be going abroad, sir.”
“Exactly. That brings me to the question I came here to ask. You’re the air expert. Would it be difficult to fly these pictures out of the country?”
“Far from being difficult, sir, it would be comparatively easy.”
The Chief’s eyes opened wide. “You astonish me. The airports have been alerted. All large parcels, and a bundle of paintings would make a very large parcel, are being examined.”
“I wasn’t thinking of public air transport, sir. I’m sure that to get these stolen pictures through Customs would be next to impossible. I had in mind a private aircraft, possibly one acquired for this very purpose.”
“Then what are the air police for? Have you done anything about last night’s robbery?”
“No, sir. As the theft took place in London and there was no suggestion of aviation being involved I took it to be a job for ‘C’ Division. We’re doing our best to prevent illegal air operations but the difficulties are enormous. My colleagues on the Continent tell me that smuggling by private aircraft goes on all the time and there’s little they can do to prevent it.”
The Chief frowned. “This is alarming. What are these difficulties?”
“If you’ll bear with me for a moment, sir, I’ll explain. Consider my own position. I have three assistants to help me to cover not just a single frontier but some two thousand miles of coastline. Even if we maintained a non-stop patrol it’s unlikely we’d spot a night-flying aircraft showing no lights. We can’t be at every altitude from the ground up.”
“I appreciate that. Then what do you do?”
“We rely chiefly on radar stations for information. If they pick up an unidentified plane that ignores signals they tip us off. But of course a pilot who knew his job would be able to dodge radar by coming in low, under the beam. Enemy pilots did that in the war. But they could be heard, and there were ground defences to deal with them. Today there’s nothing to prevent a machine creeping in low, and with hardly a sound, having cut its engine at a high altitude. Even if I intercepted such an intruder what could I do about it? I have no authority to shoot down a suspect who might turn out to be an innocent man whose navigation lights and radio equipment were out of order. We don’t carry guns, anyway, so the circumstances couldn’t arise. If a machine carrying valuable pictures was brought down by any means the chances are that the pictures would perish with the aircraft.”
The Chief’s eyes were on Biggles’ face. “Are you telling me there’s nothing to stop a plane coming to this country by night, landing, and then leaving again?”
“That, sir, is exactly what I am saying. I could do it. Of course, such an operation would call for expert preparation and need a lot of money behind it.”
“But if the proceeds of a robbery made it worth while it could be done?”
“Without a doubt. With official connivance it would be simple.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“The only risk such an aircraft would run would be on the ground here, and that need be no more than a matter of minutes. If arrangements were officially made for the flight, from one of the Iron Curtain countries for instance, there would be no trouble in the country of departure. With an accomplice here at a prearranged spot to hand over the parcel the machine could fly straight home.”
“You think this is being done?”
“I’m saying it’s possible, sir. As a private enterprise it would be an expensive business.”
“Then who would spend money on such an operation for a few pictures?”
“Maybe a wealthy collector who would be content to keep them under lock and key and gloat over them in private. Or possibly an Iron Curtain country furnishing a new art gallery.”
“Why this emphasis on an Iron Curtain country?”
“I don’t necessarily mean Russia. What I really meant was a country, any country, where visitors are not welcome. In other words, a country where the pictures could be put on view with little chance of them being recognized as stolen property. I used the term Iron Curtain because with tourists flocking into every city outside it, were the pictures exposed to the public it could only be a question of time before they were spotted. I’m only pointing out the possibilities, sir. If these pictures are going abroad only a very rich man or a government could afford to finance their transportation by air by the method I described a moment ago.”
The Chief drew a deep breath. “Well, what can we do about it?”
“I can only say I’ll think about it, sir. So far it’s all been conjecture. We’ve nothing to work on.”
The Chief nodded. “I appreciate that. However, do the best you can.”
The Air Commodore spoke. “All right. Bigglesworth. That’s all for now. Keep me informed of any action you take. I’m sure the Chief will give us every possible assistance.”
“Yes, sir.” Biggles retired and returned to his own office where he found the others waiting with some anxiety.
“Well, what was it all about?” questioned Ginger.
Seated at his desk Biggles supplied the necessary information.
“So where do we start?” asked Bertie, polishing his eye-glass. “It seems we’re expected to work miracles.”
“I gave up relying on miracles long ago,” returned Biggles, lighting a cigarette. “For a start, pass me the morning papers and we’ll see exactly what we’re looking for. The last three pictures were pinched last night so unless the thieves have moved fast they may still be in the country. I’d wager they won’t be here long. Once they’ve left they’ll be gone for good.”
“Which means,” said Ginger cynically, “we’ve got maybe twenty-four hours to find ‘em.”
“Probably less.”
“Ha! What a hope.” Ginger laid the papers on Biggles’ desk.
* * *
There was silence while Biggles read newspaper accounts of the robbery. “This tells us a little,” he said, looking up. “Of a number of pictures in the room only three, the most valuable, were taken. They were a self portrait of Rembrandt, a work called The Boy in Black by El Greco, and the third, Donna Lucia, by Frans Hals, presumably a painting of a lady. These were Old Masters. Modern art wasn’t touched. Apparently it wasn’t considered good enough.”
“And what does that tell us?” asked Algy.
“The thief knew exactly what he was after. That in turn means he was an expert and that he knew the pictures were there. It was the same story in the previous art robberies. That isn’t coincidence. These thefts are the work of one gang. If so, it suggests the pictures are all going to the same destination; in fact, to the same individual, who may be the master mind behind the racket. He finds out where the pictures are and sends experienced cracksmen to get them. Anyhow, that’s how it looks to me. We may ask, how does he know where the pictures are? The obvious answer is that he goes to look at them. I shall assume he’s a foreigner because the pictures would be useless in this country. No man here in his right mind would buy them knowing them to be stolen. He couldn’t sell them. I doubt if the pictures are being sold. They’re going into a collection somewhere— but I wouldn’t try to guess
where. Of course, this is really guesswork; but we’ve got to start somewhere. As I said a moment ago it’s no use rushing off without an object.”
“How do we set about establishing an object?” inquired Ginger. “It seems a pretty hopeless business to me.”
“I haven’t had much time to think but I can see two lines of approach, both vague I must admit. But if we don’t do something the Big Chief will conclude we’re a dead loss. If he’s right in believing these pictures are being flown overseas—and there I agree with him—it’s safe to assume that while they’re still in this country, waiting for an aircraft to collect them, they’ll be parked at the nearest available place to their final destination. What I mean is, the pilot of the aircraft won’t want to do more flying over this country than is absolutely necessary. That indicates a landing ground near the east coast.”
“Why the east coast?”
“Because it’s my guess that these pictures are going east. Put it like this. We can rule out north because one can’t imagine them being taken to the North Pole. I eliminate the south coast because pictures are also being stolen from France. I can’t see pictures being taken from here to a country where other pictures are being pinched. No. The pictures being stolen in France are leaving that country in the same way as they are leaving here. As for the west coast, it doesn’t make sense because the cost of an aircraft capable of flying a load non-stop across the Atlantic would be greater than the value of the pictures. Moreover, such a machine would have to operate from an airport. It could hardly take on hundreds of gallons of fuel and oil without questions being asked. So my guess is east, in which case there would be no point in making the machine fly farther in this country than was necessary.”
“There’s a lot of east coast, old boy, if you’re thinking of giving it the once over from topsides,’ murmured Bertie.
“We’ll come to that presently,” replied Biggles. “There’s just a chance we may be able to reduce the area to be covered. That brings me to my second line of approach, which is at the London end. I’m still assuming that the man behind these thefts is foreigner for the simple reason they’d be no earthly use to a local burglar. This man is a picture expert. He knows them by sight and exactly where they are, the room and how they are hung. How does he know? By going to look at them. In short, before the pictures were stolen the thief, or the brain behind the actual burglars, went to the gallery to get the lay-out. That’s my guess and I shall work on it.” Biggles paused
