by W E Johns
‘Why buy a machine? Was he going on the flight?’
‘Not so far as I know. The trip was supposed to be a solo job. Nice lad, Renford. He’s only about nineteen. This business must have cost him a packet.’
‘Why should he buy a machine for someone else to fly?’
‘Search me.’
‘Can you give me his address?’
‘Sure. Here it is. He lived alone in a flat in Jermyn Street.’
Biggles picked up the slip of paper, folded it and put it in his pocket. ‘I take it Bowden chose the machine, not Renford?”
‘Correct.’
‘Do you know why Bowden chose an Owlet?’
Hay grinned. ‘Because it’s a good aeroplane.’
‘Didn’t it strike you as odd that he, a practical pilot, should pick on a plane which couldn’t do what he said he intended to do?’
‘This isn’t a pilot’s information bureau. My job is to sell aeroplanes to anybody who wants one, without asking why he wants it. Bowden had the money to pay, I had the machine to sell.’
‘You’re sure there was nothing special about the airframe or engine?’
‘It was a standard model. I told you that the other day.’
‘I just wanted to be quite sure. A lot might depend on it. Well, if that’s as much as you can tell me I’ll push along.’
‘That’s all I know. The thing’s as much a mystery to me as it is to you. I want to forget it. It won’t help me to sell Owlets.’
‘And now,’ said Ginger, when they were outside, ‘I suppose we’re on our way to see this lad Renford.’
‘We are. But I have a feeling he won’t be at home.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because if I’m any good at guessing he’s dead and buried — in Africa. If he put up the money for that machine you may be sure he expected to do the trip with Bowden — no matter what Bowden told the Press about flying solo. The more I think about it the more sure I am that Bowden never intended to try to break the Cape record. As an experienced pilot he would know that the machine was incapable of it. That doesn’t make sense. What was his object? I’m afraid Renford insisted on going, which may not have suited Bowden, and as a result the boy lost his life. At least, that’s how it begins to look to me. There are still a lot of questions to be answered, though. The first is, why did Bowden acquire an aircraft only to destroy it? It sounds daft, but I’m pretty sure that’s what he did. But when we know the answer to that we shall know the rest.’
‘You think Bowden is still alive?’
‘I do. He took a parachute. Why? Because he felt more comfortable in it? Rot. He took that brolly for a more practical purpose than that.’
Biggles’ surmise about the man they had called to see was confirmed at the entrance to the block of flats. A uniformed janitor was on duty.
‘I’ve called to see Mr Renford,’ announced Biggles.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but Mr Renford is not at home.’
‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’
‘No, sir. He didn’t say.’
‘When did you last see him?’
The janitor pursed his lips. ‘Let’s see. Must be ten days ago.’
‘He didn’t say where he was going, or what he was going to do?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And you’ve heard nothing of him since he went away?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
Biggles returned to the car and drove on towards Scotland Yard.
‘If Bowden murdered young Renford he’ll be clear away by now,’ observed Ginger, moodily.
‘That may be so; but if he assumes that he has been reported dead he may take a chance and give himself away,’ returned Biggles. ‘That must have been all very carefully planned, although for what purpose I wouldn’t try to guess. No doubt Bowden’s imagining by now that he’s got away with it. We shall see.’
They went on to the Air Commodore’s office and reported the latest developments.
‘Did you find anything of interest in Bowden’s service papers?’ inquired Biggles.
‘No. His career was fairly normal, except that he was in a spot of trouble once or twice, on one occasion being under suspicion of having misappropriated squadron funds. But nothing was proved. He lived apart from his wife. His longest overseas tour was at Suakin, on the Red Sea, with a flying-boat squadron. That was some time ago. The station has since been abandoned.’
Biggles’ eyebrows went up. ‘That’s no great distance from where the Owlet crashed. Could that be a coincidence? At all events, he would know the country round Suakin very well.’
‘And on the other side of the Red Sea too, apparently. He once had a forced landing on the Arabian coast just south of Jidda, and spent a couple of pleasant weeks, waiting for a relief plane, with a friend of ours named Sheikh Ibn Usfa. Later, he fetched him to be the guest of honour at a squadron guest night.’
‘I see,’ said Biggles slowly. ‘Why did he leave the Service?’
‘He resigned. I’ve found out that he was hopelessly in debt, so as he couldn’t meet his bills it’s likely he would have been asked to resign, anyway.’
‘I wonder,’ breathed Biggles.
‘What do you wonder?’
‘If he’s resumed his friendship with the Sheikh? He must have found a snug hiding-place somewhere or we should have heard something of him by this time — dead or alive.’
‘How could he have crossed the Red Sea without an aircraft? The Owlet was burnt out. There’s no longer any doubt about that.’
‘There are such things as boats, and having been stationed at Suakin he’d know his way around,’ averred Biggles. ‘As a clue it is, I must admit, pretty thin; but I can think of nowhere else to look. There may be some hook-up. If he isn’t there he might be anywhere between Cairo and the Cape.’
‘Very well,’ said the Air Commodore. ‘You started this so it’s up to you to find him. You might run out to Suakin and see if there’s any news there. Failing in that go over and have a word with the Sheikh. He might be able to help you, or maybe drop something that would give you a line on Bowden’s whereabouts. They seem to have got quite pally.’
‘It’s better than doing nothing,’ agreed Biggles. ‘We can’t keep the lid on this business much longer or when the facts are released the newspapers will want to know why the secrecy.’
‘You might care to see this,’ said the Air Commodore, taking a photograph from the file and passing it across the desk. ‘It was taken on the occasion of the Sheikh’s visit to the squadron at Suakin. There he is, in the middle, with the Commanding Officer on his right and Bowden on his left. The rest are officers who were serving with the unit at the time.’
Biggles studied the photograph, and Ginger, looking over his shoulder, did the same. The Sheikh, unmistakable in his Arab dress, was a fine, aristocratic-looking man of about seventy. Bowden was a heavy, rather florid type, with the big moustache in vogue in the R.A.F..
Biggles handed it back. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I shall know Bowden if I see him. If that’s all, sir, we’ll move off.’
It was five days before Biggles with Ginger took up a course across the Red Sea, having stopped at Alexandria to make some inquiries, and later at Abu Kara, where he renewed his acquaintance with the Resident Magistrate. There was no further news. Bowden, it seemed, had vanished as utterly as a stone dropped in deep water. With a letter of introduction in his pocket Biggles then pushed on for his final objective, the oasis and village of El Bishra where the Sheikh had his palace.
There was no difficulty in finding it on a coast so barren that settlements are few and far between. There was no airfield. In fact there was really no need for one, for the sabkha, flat areas of sand and pebbles, stretched for miles in every direction except to the west, where forbidding cliffs held back the sea. Biggles landed as near as he dare to the village. There was no one about, so having switched off they began walking towards the palace, a whitened mud-brick
building that stood high above the huddle of sun-bleached houses. The only green things were the usual date palms that thrust their crowns high into the steely-blue sky, and even their fronds hung motionless, wilting in the blistering heat.
A man appeared. He saw them and instantly retired. More came out, and it seemed to Ginger that there was something hostile about the way they just stood there watching the approach of the two white men.
‘I don’t know that I quite like this,’ he remarked.
‘A few years ago they would probably have knocked our heads off,’ returned Biggles lightly. ‘But times have changed. In any case, according to the Air Commodore we’ve always been on good terms with this particular Sheikh, who was educated in England. It’s no more than curiosity. They can’t have many visitors here.’
Ginger was glad of the reassurance, for there was something disconcerting, to say the least of it, in the way the Arabs with dark scowling faces, but without saying a word, lined up beside them and kept them company. By the time they reached the palace they were in the centre of a small but menacing crowd.
‘Something’s happened here or they wouldn’t behave like this,’ asserted Biggles quietly. ‘I hope nothing’s happened to the Sheikh. That would make things awkward.’
At the palace door they were stopped by two armed Negroes, but Biggles was saved the trouble of explaining his reason for being there when a young man, from his dress a person of importance, appeared from within.
‘Can I be of service to you?’ he inquired, in perfect English.
‘May I have the honour of an audience with the Sheikh Ibn Usfa?’ requested Biggles.
The young man appeared to hesitate for a moment. Then he said, with a frank, disarming smile: ‘Please come in. My house and all that is in it is at your disposal.’
They followed their host into a spacious room, simply furnished. ‘Please be seated,’ he said, indicating a divan. ‘You would like some refreshment after your journey — some sherbet, or some coffee perhaps?’
‘Thank you. Some sherbet would be welcome. It’s rather warm outside.’
The sheikh clapped his hands. A Negro appeared, accepted an order in what presumably was Arabic, bowed and retired.
‘May I, if I may speak without offence, congratulate you on your command of my language?’ said Biggles.
A smile, rather sad, softened the young man’s face. ‘It will not seem so remarkable when I tell you that I have just completed my third year at your Cambridge University. I returned only a few days ago, on receiving news of my father’s death.’
Biggles’ expression changed. ‘Your father...?’
‘The Sheikh Ibn Usfa was my father. He is dead. Such was God’s will.’
Biggles began to get up. ‘I am most dreadfully sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘I didn’t know. We will not intrude on—’
The young sheikh raised a hand. ‘There’s no need to apologize. Please remain. I would like to tell you about this tragic affair. You may be able to throw some light on the matter. You see, my father, who never harmed any man, was murdered.’
‘Murdered! By whom?’ Biggles was aghast.
‘We don’t know. All we know is that a man who must have been familiar with this house came here in the dead of night. He killed the sentry on duty, entered this room, shot my father and fled.’
Biggles’ face was pale in spite of the heat. ‘When did this happen?’
‘A fortnight ago. When I received the news I flew straight home, of course.’
‘And you have no idea who did this foul thing?’
‘No. But I know why he did it. My father, like many sheikhs along this coast, was a great collector of pearls, as was his father before him. Fine pearls are found in these waters as you probably know, and our men dive for them. My father’s collection stood on this table, in sea water, in ordinary glass jars, so that he could always see them. You may think it foolish that a fortune in pearls should be left thus, but to my father, who was an honest man, it was inconceivable that anyone would touch them. They have stood here for years. Well, they have gone. It was for them, obviously, that the murderer came. But let me not burden you with my troubles. Can I serve in place of my father, whom you wished to see?’
‘It is possible,’ said Biggles slowly, after exchanging glances with Ginger, ‘that my business here is not unconnected with what you have just told me. We are police officers from London. Did anyone, here or in the village, hear an aircraft on the night your father was murdered?’
‘Yes. As a matter of fact an aeroplane was heard; but as that is not unusual it was not connected with my father’s death.’
‘Did anyone hear this aircraft land?’
‘No.’
‘How was the sentry killed?’
‘By a blow on the head with a heavy weapon.’
‘Such as the butt end of a revolver?’
‘Yes, I suppose that might have done it, as would any blunt instrument.’
‘But I don’t understand. How could that happen? I mean, if the sentry saw a stranger surely he would challenge him before the intruder was close enough to strike him.’
‘One would think so.’
‘But if the visitor was a man whom he thought he recognized as a friend of your father’s he would not raise an alarm.’
‘Of course not. He would welcome him with a greeting.’
‘Had that happened it would account for the sentry being caught off guard.’
‘That could be the explanation. Indeed, it would be difficult to think of another. The sentry would certainly bar the approach of a stranger, black or white.’
‘I will not weary you with the details of another murder on the opposite coast into which I am inquiring,’ went on Biggles. ‘But as it is possible that both murders were committed by the same man I must ask you, if you will, to bear with me a little longer. It is now in your interest as well as mine.’
‘I am entirely at your disposal.’
At this juncture refreshments were brought in and there was a pause in the proceedings.
‘Did you ever meet a man here, a Royal Air Force officer, named Bowden?’ resumed Biggles.
‘I never met him but I heard of him from my father.’
‘He was a guest here for some time, about three years ago.’
‘So I understand. I had just left for Cambridge.’
‘Would the sentry know this man Bowden?’
‘Almost surely, for he had grown old in my father’s service.’
‘In which case he would not challenge him?’
‘No. He would receive him with respect.’
‘I imagine Bowden would see the pearls when he was here?’
‘He could hardly fail to do so. They stood on the table and were never locked up. Anyway, my father would be proud to show them to him, for they were his hobby. Every one was a specimen. Smaller or misshapen ones he sold to a dealer.’
‘Who was this dealer?’
‘A Greek named Janapoulos, of Suakin, on the opposite coast.’
‘Would you recognize these pearls if you saw them again?’
‘The exceptional ones, perhaps. My father knew them like his children. No two pearls are exactly alike. Apart from size, colour, weight and lustre, there are always minute marks, sometimes tiny cracks, observable only through a magnifying glass, which make every large pearl an individual. My father kept a little book in which was noted a description of every pearl in his collection. As I have said, it was his hobby. There is little else for a man to do here.’
‘Would it be too much to ask you to lend me that book?’
‘You may have it if it will help to bring my father’s murderer to justice.’ The young sheikh smiled sadly. ‘It is not much use without the pearls.’
‘Without it, it would not be possible to identify the pearls, which are certain to turn up somewhere, sooner or later. About this Greek at Suakin. Did your father go to him when he had pearls to sell, or did the man come here?’
&
nbsp; ‘He called here at intervals to see if my father had anything to offer. He called on other sheikhs too, of course. He has a boat which takes him on his tours up and down the coast.’
‘Would you regard him as an honest man?’
‘He has that reputation, and my father must have found him so, or he would have had nothing to do with him.’
‘Are there any other pearl dealers near here?’
‘Only small men. Janapoulos is the best known. He is known in London and Paris, I believe.’
‘Has he a shop in Suakin?’
‘No. He lives in a private house, the Villa Verde, in the Stretta Gonzales.’ The Sheikh frowned. ‘You don’t think he—?’
‘Stole the pearls? Not for a moment. As a professional dealer he would know they might be recognized when they were put up for sale. He would hardly be such a fool as to risk his reputation. But he may be able to help us.’
‘In what way?’
‘The thief may have offered the pearls to him.’
‘Even so I don’t think he would recognize them because my father allowed no one but himself to actually handle them. Moreover, those pearls are the last thing Janapoulos would expect to see in Suakin. He would know as well as anyone that they were never allowed to leave this house.’
‘Still, he may have heard rumours.’ Biggles got up. ‘Do not think us discourteous if we leave at once, but as you will appreciate, time is now of vital importance.’
‘I understand. If I can be of further assistance do not hesitate to call on me.’
‘Thank you.’
Biggles and Ginger took their leave and returned to the aircraft.
‘A nice chap, that,’ remarked Ginger, as Biggles, finding a spot of shade under a wing, paused to light a cigarette.
‘The thief who murdered his father might have turned a friend of ours into an enemy — particularly as it begins to look as if it may have been a Britisher. But a crook never thinks of that.’
‘You think Bowden did it?’
‘I hate to think so, but all the evidence so far points to that and we can’t get away from it. Let’s sum it up. Bowden was broke. He knew the pearls were there, unguarded except for a sentry who knew him as a friend of the Sheikh. He knew his way about the palace. An aircraft was heard that night. He had one. At least, he had one until he crashed it in Africa. The reason he had one is wide open to suspicion. Ostensibly it was for a go at the Cape record. That, on the face of it, was ridiculous. He must have known the machine chosen was incapable of it. Why did he choose an Owlet, designed for night work, when, as he wasn’t paying for it he could presumably have had a faster machine? No doubt he could have had any machine he chose to name. The Owlet has been found burnt out, but the body in it wasn’t his. How did that happen? Where is he? If he wasn’t after the pearls what was he after? He was certainly after something and if it was on the level why hasn’t he shown up?’
