by W E Johns
“I didn’t look at it like that.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to, but it happens to be my job to be suspicious of events when they involve improbabilities. In this case, unless I’m right off the beam, there’s more to this than robbery. It begins to smell like murder—threefold.”
Bales shook his head. “It’s hard to see how the gold could have been taken. The farmer says he was on the spot in a matter of minutes. Who could have carried away the gold in such a short time?”
“Somebody did, and I reckon he had at least an hour. The farmer rode to Arles to fetch the police. He wouldn’t do that in less than half an hour. So by the time he had told his story and the police had got here at least an hour must have elapsed. During that period someone moved the bullion. Local men in the Camargue are few and far between, and even if by some remote chance one did come along at such an hour how could he possibly know what was in the packing cases? By the way, what are you doing with the bodies?”
“They’ve been taken to Arles. After the inquest they’ll be flown home.”
“Would you object to me asking the police surgeon there to make an autopsy?”
“For heaven’s sake! For what reason?”
“The crew would have a meal or a drink before they started. I’d like to know the contents of their stomachs.”
“Are you suggesting they might have been poisoned?”
“Or drugged. It’s a long shot. I’ve seen a lot of crashes and I can’t imagine experienced pilots doing this if they were fully conscious. I’m convinced somebody knew this was going to happen, and if I’m right that gold isn’t far away. For the moment it would be sufficient to get it out of the crash. It could be taken away later when the fuss has died down. A vehicle would be needed and a stranger would be spotted. Look at the country. There’s only one road. To the south it ends at the salt pans on the coast. In the other direction it leads to Arles. Would the thief go that way immediately knowing he’d meet the police cars and might be stopped? That’s why I feel the man who lifted the gold should still be in the vicinity.”
“I see what you mean,” said Bales slowly.
“Now if you’ll excuse me I’ll introduce myself to the police inspector and ask him if he minds me having a word with the farmer. He may have seen a stranger about.”
Biggles walked over to the officer and introduced himself, showing his credentials. After a few words on the situation he put his question about the farmer, whose name he learned was Vallon. The Inspector raised no objection, remarking that the man, a cattle breeder well-known in Arles, was above suspicion. He knew nothing about the gold, anyhow.
Biggles strolled over to the man in question. “I understand, Monsieur Vallon, that you were first on the scene of the accident.”
The farmer agreed, adding the information that he was in his yard when he heard the plane coming, very fast and very low.
“You were up early, monsieur.”
“I got up to see if I could help Monsieur Laroux mend his motor car.”
“Who is Monsieur Laroux?”
“A tourist who comes to make pictures of our famous red flamingos. He arrived yesterday. His car had broken down and he asked me if he could stay until he had made the repairs.”
“When you heard the crash did he go with you to see what had happened?”
“But of course. We ran all the way. As his car was not working I said I would ride to Arles on my horse for help.”
“And he stayed with the plane?”
“Yes, to do what he could for the men if they were not dead.”
“Then you went to Arles and he stayed at the accident.”
“Exactement, monsieur.”
“Where was he when you returned?”
“In my barn, working on his car. As the men in the plane were dead there was nothing he could do for them.”
“Where is he now?”
“In the shed. He says the accident is not his business. He thinks only of the flamingos.”
At this point the conversation was broken off by the drone of an aircraft. Looking up Biggles recognized the Morane flown by Marcel Brissac of Police Headquarters in Paris. He waited for him to land and greeted him with: “Bonjour, Marcel. You arrive at the perfect moment. This plane was carrying gold and it has disappeared. I may be able to tell you where to find it. Let us go to the Inspector from Arles. From what I say you will understand what I suspect.”
To the Inspector Biggles said: “Did you know that a stranger, a Monsieur Laroux, is staying at the farm?”
“Mais non, monsieur. Vallon did not tell me that.”
“He would attach no importance to it. When the plane struck the ground this man was already up and dressed, working on his car which, he says, has broken down. When Monsieur Vallon went to Arles to fetch you Laroux stayed with the accident. When the gold disappeared he must have been here. You follow me?”
The Inspector was frowning. “Who is this man?”
“He says he came to take pictures of the flamingos, although, as we know, they are many kilometres from here.”
Marcel clicked his tongue, his eyes meeting those of the Inspector. “I think we will ask this Laroux some questions.”
“You might also look to see what he has in his car,” suggested Biggles. “Gold is heavy stuff to carry away in the pockets.”
“We shall see.” The Inspector beckoned two of his men and the party walked quickly to the farm. Laroux was there, in the barn, standing by his car. His face lost its colour and he moistened his lips when he saw the uniforms, as Biggles did not fail to notice.
Said Marcel: “You spend much time here, m’sieur. Do you wait for something?”
“I have trouble with the engine. It will not go.”
Marcel slipped into the driving seat and touched the starter. The engine came to life instantly. Switching off, without a word he went round to the boot. It was locked. He held out a hand to Laroux. “The key,” he demanded curtly.
Laroux made a dash for the open doors but the two policemen grabbed him. The key was taken from his pocket and the boot opened. There, in its original boxes, was the gold.
Marcel looked at Biggles, smiling whimsically “Zut! Still the old fox. Tch! What a nose you have for gold.”
It need only be said that Laroux, faced with the guillotine for being an accessory in a murder plot, confessed everything, betraying the leaders of the gang with which he was associated. This revealed what Biggles had suspected. At their last meal in Accra the two pilots had been dosed with a slow-working drug, the action of which could be fairly well judged. The scheme was to bring the aircraft down in the area where a man would be waiting. It had not always worked. In the case of the machine that had gone down in the sea the dose had been too strong. On the present occasion it had been judged more accurately.
The instigators of the plot, who operated in Accra, were picked up in due course.
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A ROUTINE JOB
AIR COMMODORE RAYMOND pushed across his desk, towards his chief operational pilot, a small blue and white packet. The seal had been broken. “Take a look at those,” he requested.
Biggles looked inside the pack. “Cigarettes. What’s wrong with ‘em?”
“Take one out.”
Biggles complied, and raised the cigarette to his nose. “Reefers, eh. Marijuana?”
“Marijuana, hashish—call it what you like, it comes to the same thing.”
“What about it? Surely this is a nut for the Dangerous Drugs Squad to crack.”
“They’re working on it, of course. More important than the distribution of the stuff is to find out how it’s getting into the country. That’s where the traffic will have to be nipped. There’s a suggestion that it might be coming in by air so I’ve been asked to cover that angle.”
“Where did this packet come from?”
“Do you remember, a fortnight ago, a lad named Blake being murdered in the Lambeth Road? He was stabbed outside a c
offee bar called Pepe’s Place.”
“I thought you’d picked up the kid who did it.”
“Quite right. Boy of seventeen named Reeves. These were in his pocket. As you can see, the packet is one short. Reeves says he smoked it the night he did the killing. He was cocky enough at first, but when the effects of the drug wore off, and he learned that Blake was dead, he changed his tune and talked plenty.”
“Did he know the effect reefers could have?”
“He was told they’d make him feel brave.”
Biggles nodded grimly. “They seem to have done that. Did he say where he’d got this murderous stuff?”
“He says he bought the packet in Pepe’s Place from a man he didn’t know. Never seen him before. Describes him as a little well-dressed fellow of about twenty-five who spoke with a slight foreign accent. That’s the best he could do. He swears he’d never smoked one before. Tried one as an experiment. It seems he had a grudge against Blake over a girl, and when he left the bar he followed him and stabbed him. Didn’t mean to kill him, of course. Swears he didn’t really know what he was doing.”
“Could be true. How much did he pay for this packet of death-dealers?”
“Two pounds.”
“That was cheap.”
“Cheap enough to make the possibilities all the more serious. If some rat is going round flogging reefers at two pounds a packet we can expect more trouble.”
“I take it you haven’t found this dope peddler?”
“We have not. If he saw Reeves’ photo in the papers, realizing what he’d done he may have gone into hiding. He’s probably only a small-time retailer, anyway. What we want to know is where he got this infernal stuff and how it was brought into the country. These packets weren’t made here. The laboratory thinks they’re French.”
“Could some young fool on a trip to France have been talked into buying a few packets?”
“It’s possible but unlikely. If that’s the case, and we’ve only one or two packets to deal with, we’ve nothing much to worry about. If someone has worked out a scheme for importing them in quantities it would be a very different matter. What points to that is the way they’re being sold. Usually, in the shady night-clubs, it’s one at a time. Here’s someone selling them by the packet.”
“The Customs people don’t object to anyone bringing in a couple of hundred cigarettes. In fact, most people stock up on the boat because they can buy them cheaper on board than ashore.”
“That wouldn’t be much use if someone is making a business of importing reefers. This packet was sold for two pounds. Let’s suppose they can be bought in France for a pound. Ten packets of twenty are bought abroad for ten pounds and sold here for twenty. Out of the ten pounds profit someone has to pay the fare to and from the Continent. It wouldn’t be worth the risk. Who in his right mind would chance a long prison sentence for ten pounds?”
Biggles agreed. “He wouldn’t get away with it very often, anyhow, if he started making regular trips across the Channel. With passport officers, currency and Customs officials, anyone making the trip too often without a valid reason becomes suspect. Have you come across any more of this nasty brand of cigarettes?”
“A search round the clubs has yielded two empty packets.”
Biggles pulled a face. “Not too good.”
The Air Commodore went on. “We’ve got to assume this accursed stuff is being imported in dangerous quantities. How’s it being done? All ports of disembarkation have been alerted. I want you to cover the air angle and lose no time about it.”
“You think it’s coming in by air?”
“In my opinion that’s more likely than by sea. I’m not thinking of regular Customs airports because they would involve the same risks as seaports. A packet of the stuff weighs practically nothing. A light aircraft would make nothing of a thousand packets, and that would show more the sort of profit dope runners expect.”
“I’ll see what I can make of it,” said Biggles, getting up.
Biggles returned to his own office where his three assistant pilots awaited him. “It looks as if we’ve got one of those dull routine jobs on our hands,” he said. “We’re shown a big haystack and told to find the needle.” He explained the case as it had been put to him. “There’s not a thing to go on but the chief seems convinced that the stuff is coming in by air. It’s no use working the official airports. There are men there who can do that better than we can. They’ve been alerted. All we can do is check up on all other forms of civil flying in the hope of getting a line. I’ll start here by going through the register of all privately owned machines. You can divide the country into three sections and work the clubs. You needn’t bother with charter companies. No pilot having been overseas would risk losing his ticket by landing anywhere except at a Customs airport.”
“What in particular do you want us to look for?” asked Algy.
“You know the drill. Check log-books for night flights, and any other flights of long duration. You needn’t come back here every night unless you want to. If you don’t, report by phone so I know where you are. The chief is right in this: if this stuff is being airborne, as the method has been successful so far the operators will do it again. That’s about our only chance of catching up with ‘em.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Ginger.
“After dark I shall tackle this end of the business, working the night-clubs and coffee bars in the hope of spotting the man, or one of the men, selling the stuff to kids. There may be more than one at it. For a bait I shall borrow that packet of doped cigarettes from the chief, put a few ordinary brands in it and flash it about to encourage the drug peddler to try to sell me more. If I can find one of these wide boys he may lead me back to the headquarters of the gang. That’s all for now. You’ve a lot of travelling to do so get on with it. If you should find a flying club secretary who refuses to co-operate let me know at once. I shall want to know why.”
So the Air Police went into action on a task that promised to be more monotonous than exciting.
And that for three days was what it proved to be. Every evening Algy, Bertie and Ginger either returned home or rang up with the same report. Nothing doing. Not a clue, nor a hint of one. Biggles went through the list of private owners with a fine comb, but almost without exception could rule out every one as beyond suspicion. By night he hung about in clubs and coffee bars, specializing on those in the region where the murder had been committed, often exposing the blue and white packet that held the drug-loaded cigarettes.
It was on the fourth night, in Pepe’s Place, a little after ten o’clock, that the bait hooked a fish. With the packet in his hand he had just pretended to take a cigarette from it when a man sauntered up to him with the request: “Got one to spare?”
Biggles looked at him. He was a seedy-looking individual of about twenty, carelessly dressed in a Teddy-boy outfit. His manner was nonchalant, but there was a hint of anxiety in it.
“You wouldn’t like these, mate,” answered Biggles, in a not unfriendly tone of voice. “They’re special. I have to smoke ‘em for my throat.”
“Same as you,” was the smiling reply. “I know all about it. I’ll buy one off you. I’m out of stock. Can’t think what’s happened to Birdie. It must be close on three weeks since he looked in.”
“Birdie?” queried Biggles, innocently.
“That’s what I call him.”
“Why?”
“Well, you know that tie he wears.”
Biggles shook his head. “Funny, I never noticed anything special about it.”
“He always wears that blue tie with little white birds on it. Maybe he didn’t tell you, but he once told me it was always safe, in case he didn’t turn up, to ask anyone wearing his old school tie. I reckon that was his little joke. All you have to say is, ‘got a fag to spare, chum’—and Bob’s your uncle. Now give us a smoke.”
Biggles handed over a reefer. It was taken with a trembling hand. “I don’t know about yo
u, but I find this game’s a bit expensive,” he remarked.
“You’re telling me! Can’t help it. My nerves are all shook up. I have to have ‘em whatever they cost.” The speaker dragged on the cigarette, inhaling the smoke with obvious relief and satisfaction. “Ah, that’s better,” he breathed.
Biggles resumed. “Birdie may have run out of stock,” he suggested.
“No fear o’ that, or so he once told me. He can always get plenty.”
“That’s good to know, anyhow,” returned Biggles.
The man moved off. “If you see Birdie ask him what he’s a’doing of. Tell him I was looking for him.”
“What name shall I say?”
“Charlie. He’ll know who you mean.”
“Okay,” agreed Biggles.
He did not follow the man, realizing he was merely a local fellow who was using the drug, nothing more. The men Biggles wanted were those selling the stuff, not those buying it. However, he hadn’t wasted his time. He now had something definite to look for— Birdie, or any other person wearing the blue and white tie.
He did not find him that night.
By morning he had made fresh plans. These were to call in Algy, Bertie and Ginger and, having told them about Birdie and the special tie, give them fresh assignments. He himself would spend his evenings in Pepe’s Place. Bertie and Ginger were to watch from the police car. Algy was to remain in the office, by the phone, in case help was needed. “This may call for patience but it’s all we can do,” concluded Biggles.
And so it turned out, for it was three days before Birdie appeared in the coffee bar. There was no mistaking him. It seemed that others were waiting for him, too, and Biggles watched several packets of the doped cigarettes change hands before the man said he had no more but would fetch some.
