by W E Johns
Biggles was tempted to arrest the man as he left in the hope that under pressure he would confess where he was getting the drug; but on reflection he decided against it, because should Birdie prove tough and refuse to talk the contact would be lost. Instead, when the man went out he followed him.
The trail that followed need not be described in detail; it is sufficient to say that after a bus ride and a walk at the end it finished at a small but expensive-looking block of flats in Mayfair. A Rolls Bentley was parked outside. Birdie walked straight in leaving Biggles to note the car’s registration.
A police officer appeared from the shadows. “What’s the idea?” he asked sternly.
“I was only admiring it,” returned Biggles, innocently.
“You keep your hands off it.” The officer moved on.
Biggles followed him to the next lamp-post. “Just a minute, officer,” he requested softly, and showed his authority.
“Sorry, sir,” said the policeman, quickly.
“That’s all right. Do you happen to know who that car belongs to?”
“A Mr. Torini. He owns the swell club at the comer.”
“Do you know him?”
“I wouldn’t say that, but he’s asked me to keep an eye on his car when he leaves it parked outside his flat. That’s only week-days. He goes away at weekends. Got a little place in the country, he once told me.”
“Did he say where?”
“No. That’s Mr. Torini, just coming out with another man.”
Biggles looked and saw Birdie talking to a stoutish figure in evening dress. Presently this man got into the car and drove off. Birdie walked away.
“Thanks, officer,” acknowledged Biggles. “Don’t tell anyone I’ve been asking questions.”
“I understand, sir.”
Biggles walked on to the lush night-club at the corner. A uniformed janitor stood outside. Not being a member Biggles didn’t attempt to enter. He returned to the Yard, where he found the others waiting for him. “We’ve got a step further,” he told them. “Ginger, run through the card index and see if we have the name Torini on our books.”
While Ginger was at the files Biggles narrated the result of his night’s work.
“No Torini,” reported Ginger.
“No matter. He’s our bird. Why else should a man in his position associate with a type like Birdie? We know his car. It should be an easy matter to check where it goes at weekends. Next time he goes we’ll be behind him.”
“What about Birdie?”
“We can pick him up any time. He’s only a peddler. I wouldn’t expect the big shot, who I fancy is Torini, to handle the retail side of the business. To break up a dope ring you’ve got to hit it at the top, not the bottom. Don’t forget this racket has already cost one lad his life, and another is in gaol. But let’s get organized for Saturday.”
“Are you expecting aviation to come into the picture?” asked Algy.
“I’m keeping an open mind about it. We may get the answer to that when we’ve seen the layout of this country cottage. If the stuff’s coming from abroad I imagine there’ll be an aircraft on the job. But we’ll deal with that when the time comes. Let’s leave it at that.”
* * *
It was seven o’clock and broad daylight when the Bentley, with Torini alone at the wheel, left London, followed by two police cars. In the first were Biggles and Ginger. In the second, a special radio car, tracking them, was Bertie. Algy had remained in the operations room to take signals. He was also in radio contact with a car of the Dangerous Drugs Branch which was following the others at a distance, taking its course from messages sent out at intervals by Bertie. These were the officers who would handle the affair if it came to a showdown on the ground, Biggles’ interest being only in the air.
At first the course was west, but it soon turned south as if heading for the coast, and this, in fact, turned out to be its objective. The Bentley, not stopping, made good time, and eventually, after passing through some hamlets known to Biggles only by name, reached the sea in lonely heath-like country where Forestry Commission notices warned travellers against the danger of fire.
The journey ended abruptly, near crossroads, where a picturesque old black and white cottage, looking as if it might once have been a public house, stood back from the road half hidden by an orchard. The Bentley turned into a narrow track that gave access to it. The police cars ran on, without slackening speed, until they were round the next corner, a matter of a mere hundred yards or so.
Biggles got out and surveyed the scene, now misty in the afterglow of sunset. In front lay the Channel, with a few big ships in sight on the horizon. To left and right undulating chalk cliffs, with here and there a narrow beach of shingle, kept the sea in its place.
“Now what?” murmured Bertie, as they stood by the cars. “I see nowhere near where an aircraft might land.”
It seemed that the answer might be at hand, for within a minute, from a long way off, came the unmistakable clatter of a helicopter.
“I can see it,” said Ginger presently. “It’s coming along the shore line—pretty low, too.”
“Could be a naval coast patrol, looking for people cut off by the tide or something of that sort,” surmised Bertie.
“It won’t see much in this light,” remarked Biggles. “Whatever it’s doing that machine is too low to be tracked by radar.”
They watched. The helicopter came into sight, silhouetted against the sky, which made it impossible to read any registration letters it may have carried. Biggles did not need any. “That’s a Frenchman,” he muttered. “An Alouette. General-purpose job. What’s he doing over this side?”
Once, for a moment, when the machine was almost opposite, it dipped below the top of the cliff; then it reappeared, swinging out to sea, soon to disappear in the haze. By that time Biggles was running towards the edge of the cliff. Reaching it he lay down and looked over. “I thought so,” he said tersely, as the others joined him. Explanation was unnecessary, for it could now be seen that a little farther along, almost opposite the cottage, a section of the cliff had broken down. Over the rubble two figures were descending to the beach. Their purpose was not long in doubt, for on the water, close in, a dark object was being washed towards the pebbles.
“That’s it!” snapped Biggles. “This is where we move fast. Ginger, sprint back to the cars. Call Algy. Give him our position and tell him we need the Drugs Squad car here as quickly as possible. When you’ve done that slip along to the cottage, find the Bentley and disconnect the ignition. We’ll watch what goes on here.”
Ginger departed at a run, leaving Biggles and Bertie with their eyes on the scene below, where one of the men, having waded into the water, was dragging a bundle ashore.
“We’ll watch where they take it,” said Biggles. “ If we jump them too soon they could pretend ignorance of what it contains, saying they’d found it lying on the beach.”
Taking cover, from a safe distance they saw the parcel carried to the cottage and taken inside. Some time passed. Then a man came out and put two suitcases in the Bentley, which was still standing by the front door. He returned to the house without attempting to start the car. More time passed. Then the Drugs Squad car arrived on the scene. Biggles explained the position.
“Let’s see what’s in those suitcases,” decided one of the officers.
This was soon done, and, as expected, they were found full of cigarettes in blue and white packets.
“Now let’s hear what they have to say about it,” said the senior anti-narcotics officer.
They went to the door and knocked. It was opened by Torini. His jaw dropped when he saw who was standing there.
Biggles spoke. “The game’s up, Mr. Torini. We know all about it. Your car’s out of action and the reefers are in it. If you’re wise you’ll come clean. That aircraft that brought the stuff here. Where is it based?”
“In France.”
“Where, in France?”
�
�Marquise, between Calais and Boulogne.”
Biggles nodded. “I know it.” He turned to the Drugs Squad officers. “I’ll leave this to you, now. I’ve something else to do.”
The “something else” was to return to the cars and call Algy at headquarters. “Algy, Biggles here,” he said crisply. “The birds are in the bag. Contact Marcel Brissac in Paris and tell him that a dope-running aircraft, a helicopter which I believe to be an Alouette, has either just landed or will shortly be landing at Marquise. Say we’ll be obliged if he’ll take steps to keep this bird in a cage for a little while. I’ll send him details shortly. That’s all for now. See you shortly.”
Biggles turned to the others. “That seems to be the lot. Charlie and those reefer-smoking smart boys at Pepe’s Place will have to learn to manage without their poisonous weed. Let’s get home.”
[Back to Contents]
DAWN PATROL
GINGER hummed softly to himself as, on a routine patrol along the south coast, he flew a compass course at ten thousand feet between great billowing masses of cumulus cloud that were rolling in from the Atlantic. Checking his time by the watch on the instrument panel, he was on the point of turning his Auster aircraft to return to base when a grey shadow moving across a cloud below him caught his eye. Aware that only one vehicle can cast a shadow on the top of a cloud he banked slightly to bring the other aircraft into view, and observed that it was an Auster like his own. Checking its course he made it out to be north-east, which meant that it had come in from the sea, the English Channel.
Climbing into the eye of the sun to escape observation, he followed the machine that now shared the cloudscape with him, not with any deep suspicions but simply as a matter of interest, as a policeman on a suburban beat might keep an eye on a stranger behaving in an unusual manner. Having a little altitude to spare he “went downhill” until he could read the registration letters on the upper side of the plane which he had under observation. He made a note of them on his scribbling pad and continued to follow.
For some minutes the respective positions of the machines remained unchanged, the machine being watched keeping a dead straight course. This also was noted by Ginger on his pad. All this, it should be said, was normal procedure. It was simply Ginger’s job to take note of such things. So far, from anything it had done, the machine might be engaged in perfectly legitimate business. An even more likely supposition was that it was in the hands of a club pilot or pupil out on a joy-ride.
In life it is often the little things that turn out to be important, and thus it was when the machine being watched suddenly banked steeply, and turning on a wing tip dived into the nearest cloud.
Ginger’s lips came together. “He saw me,” he thought. “He must have spotted me in his reflector. And he didn’t like the look of me. What’s his idea?”
From now on the pursuit became a more serious matter, although in the event it led to nothing. The Auster had disappeared as completely as a stone dropped in the ocean. Ginger went down below the clouds and although he circled for some time he saw nothing of it. His mental conclusion was, if the pilot had gone out of his way to give him the slip, and he was fairly certain that was so, from the way he had succeeded the man at the joystick was obviously no novice.
Temporarily dismissing the incident from his mind he finished his patrol, returned to base, made out his Flight Report and went on to his headquarters at Scotland Yard.
“Well, any news?” queried Air Detective Inspector Bigglesworth, his chief, from his desk, when he walked in.
“Nothing to get excited about,” returned Ginger, going over to a formidable array of record filing cabinets that occupied a large section of the wall. “You remember Marcel Brissac of Paris Sûreté calling us the other day to ask us to keep our aircraft at home unless they were prepared to comply with regulations.”
“I do. He was nice about it but he was serious.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“As I remember it a British light aircraft had twice been seen over France without any record of it having landed. Once it was picked up by radar, but on another occasion it was seen in daylight, hedge-hopping before crossing the coast.”
“The coastguards didn’t get its registration?”
“Unfortunately no, or we could have checked up on it. The machine was identified as an Auster, that’s all.”
“I may have seen the fly bird this morning. At any rate, I saw a machine, an Auster, come in from the Channel.”
“Why didn’t you follow it?”
“The smart boy at the stick didn’t give me a chance. I fancy he saw me. Anyway, from flying a straight course he suddenly made a beeline for the nearest cloud. But that wasn’t before I’d got his course and identification marks.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Check the files to see who the machine belongs to.”
“Okay. Go ahead.”
Half an hour passed. Biggles looked up from the papers on his desk. “You’re a long time. What’s the trouble?”
“The trouble is, no Auster has been allocated the letters my bird was wearing. Nor any other type of aircraft as far as I can make out.”
“Have you tried the clubs?”
“I’ve tried everything, including the manufacturers’ allocations of registration letters. Those I’m looking for aren’t among them. I’ve double-checked, but the machine I saw doesn’t exist—not officially, anyhow.”
Biggles put down his pen and got up. “Oh, so that’s how it is,” he said quietly.
“I’ll slip down again tomorrow and—”
“No use. If there’s some funny business going on you’re not likely to see him, anyway, not in the same place even if he’s in the air. If this morning he got the idea he was being trailed he might even change his plumage. You say you got his course?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s draw a line through it. By extending that at both ends we might get an idea of where he’d come from or where he was making for.”
Ginger picked up ruler and pencil and went to work on the big wall map of the British Isles. “The southern end runs into Normandy,” he reported.
“Well, there’s plenty of open country there if a machine wanted to land. What about the other end? The fellow must have been making for an airfield of some sort.”
“The only airfield near the route in the southern counties is that private club registered a few months ago at Listern, in Sussex. What did they call the concern? Airsports Limited, or something of that sort.”
“That’s right. I remember it. Started by some City gent for his son who had just retired from the R.A.F.. He wanted to teach some friends of his to fly. Look ‘em up.”
Ginger went to the appropriate file, and in five minutes was able to announce: “Owner is a Mr. Otto Kleiner. His son David is secretary and chief instructor. Three aircraft, all Austers. No registration letters anything like those I saw this morning. I wonder could they have bought another machine without notifying the Ministry?”
“If they had, since the letters you’re looking for haven’t been allocated to the makers, you wouldn’t be likely to find them.”
“True enough.”
“We can’t let this slide,” decided Biggles. “If this phoney machine is making regular visits to France without checking in at a Customs airport Marcel will get peeved about it.”
“If it isn’t behaving properly over that side it seems likely that it’s giving Customs a miss over this side.”
“That’s what I was thinking. I think we’d better slip down to Listern—just drop in casually—to see what goes on there—if anything. We won’t take the Auster you used this morning in case the pilot got your markings. Ring the hangar and have the Proctor pulled out ready. I’m going to have a word with Inspector Gaskin and ask him to find out what he can about Mr. Kleiner.”
* * *
In rather less than an hour the Air Police Proctor, carrying no signs of its official purpos
e, was on its way to Listern, which a little while later revealed itself to be nothing more than a very large field with a white chalk circle in the middle. At one end was a single hangar, carrying a wind-stocking pole, and, close by it, a wooden building in the manner of a cricket pavilion, presumably the club-house. The hangar doors were open. One aircraft, an Auster, stood just outside, with a man, the only man in sight, working on it.
Biggles did a circuit, landed, and taxied on to the club-house. By the time he had switched off and got down a man, a youngish good-looking man wearing grey flannel trousers and a tweed sports jacket, was standing on the verandah. He greeted them with a cheerful smile.
“Good morning,” he called. “We don’t often have visitors. Come in and have a drink.”
“Thanks,” acknowledged Biggles. “We were just waffling around and seeing your landing sign dropped in to stretch our legs and pass the time of day.”
“Come right in.”
“What is this place?” inquired Biggles, looking about him.
“Listern.”
“Club?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t appear to be very busy.”
“We’ve hardly got started yet. No doubt we shall pick up more members when the summer comes along—if we have any summer. By-the-way, my name’s Kleiner. David Kleiner. My guv’nor fixed me up with this show to keep me out of mischief.”
“Do you normally get into mischief?” inquired Biggles, smiling.
Kleiner grinned. “It has happened. You know how it is after seven years in the Service.”
“What are you flying?”
“Austers.”
“How many?”
“Three. I hope we shall need more.”
Biggles followed Kleiner into the club-house while Ginger, hands in pockets, sauntered towards the machine standing outside the open doors of the hangar.
“Don’t be long,” Biggles told him. “I’m only staying a few minutes.”
When Ginger rejoined him in the club-house he had seen all he wanted to see. Biggles and Kleiner were leaning on a small bar with drinks in front of them, talking, as pilots usually do, about aviation in general. Kleiner said he had done no flying so far that day but would presently be testing the machine standing outside as he was expecting a pupil along at any moment.
