Biggles of the Interpol

by W E Johns

  ‘You might also, as a matter of interest, ask him how the pearls came into his possession. No doubt he will have anticipated that question and have the answer ready. I should like to know what it is.’

  ‘Certainly, monsieur. It shall be as you say.’

  With that they took up positions about the room in order that the trap should not appear too obvious.

  They had not long to wait.

  A few minutes after five there came a knock on the door. At the jeweller’s invitation it was opened by the shop manager, who had been taken into their confidence, to admit Bowden. He had shaved off his moustache, but Ginger, who had seen his photograph, recognized him nevertheless.

  ‘Come right in, monsieur,’ requested Corton, who was seated at his desk.

  ‘You’ve looked at the pearls?’ queried Bowden, advancing.

  ‘Yes, they are a very fine lot, so fine that they excite my curiosity,’ answered Corton, ‘May I ask where you got them?’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  Corton made a little gesture. ‘We have to be careful you know, particularly with new clients. You will appreciate that.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘These pearls are really yours?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘You haven’t told me yet where they came from.’

  ‘I picked them up one at a time while I was trading along the Malabar Coast.’

  ‘Strange. Pearls being my business I would have said they came out of the Red Sea,’ observed Corton.

  There he may have gone a little too far.

  Suspicion flashed into Bowden’s eyes. ‘If you don’t want them give me them back,’ he said shortly. At the same time he took a swift glance round the room, and it so happened that at the same moment Biggles turned towards him.

  What followed happened with such speed that the police were all caught, as Biggles afterwards put it, on one foot. It had been confidently expected that Bowden would be so taken by surprise that the arrest would be easy. But it did not happen like that. As Bowden’s eyes met those of Biggles his face turned ashen, and the only explanation of his conduct was that he not only recognized him but knew of his position in the Air Police, which was a possibility Biggles had not taken into account, although he confessed later that he should have done since Bowden had been employed at Gatwick, where the Air Police had their operational headquarters.

  Be that as it may, Bowden’s air-trained ability to think fast now made itself apparent. That he had suddenly grasped the situation was evident, for he turned in a flash, and hurling aside Marcel as he jumped forward to stop him, reached the door. This he flung open with such force that the two gendarmes who had been standing by it were sent staggering back. Bowden dashed between them, and dodging through the customers in the shop, reached the street.

  Biggles and Ginger were hot on his heels, but were hindered by having the swing door flung back in their faces. By the time they had recovered, and were through, Bowden was half-way across the street, twisting and dodging through the traffic, regardless of screaming brakes, wailing sirens and shouts.

  ‘We’ve lost him,’ thought Ginger, as he started to follow, to be missed by inches by a taxi. Indeed, for a moment it looked certain that Bowden would escape.

  Suddenly the traffic had stopped. There was a significant hush. A woman screamed.

  Ginger did not see exactly what happened, for a van had pulled up between him and the fugitive. But he saw men jumping from their vehicles and guessed the truth. By the time he was round the van he could see it. Bowden was under the wheels of a lorry in which a white-faced driver sat gesticulating wildly at the several people who were telling him what to do — go forward, go back, or remain still.

  Ginger joined Biggles in the middle of the road. Marcel came to them. None of them spoke. There was really nothing to say.

  Presently, Marcel moved forward to a uniformed point-duty gendarme who had pushed through the fast-collecting crowd. ‘How badly is he hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s dead,’ said someone. ‘The wheels went over him. I saw it all. The man must have been mad.’

  An ambulance announced its approach in the usual French fashion, with wailing horn.

  Biggles looked at Marcel. ‘What a mess,’ he muttered. ‘What do you want us to do?’

  ‘There is nothing you can do,’ answered Marcel. ‘You had better leave this to me. I will attend to everything.’

  ‘Thanks,’ acknowledged Biggles. ‘In that case I’ll push along home to tell my chief what has happened. I’ll come back later. Meantime, there are one or two things you can do for me. Collect the pearls from Monsieur Corton, also the little book, the inventory, I left with him. As soon as I’ve had a rest I’ll take them back to where they belong. Oh, and by the way, I think you’ll find a revolver in Bowden’s pocket. If the man’s dead we shan’t need it for evidence, but I’d like to have it to check up on the bullet that killed Renford, for our records.’

  ‘I will do all this,’ promised Marcel.

  ‘Fine. Then I’ll leave you to it. See you later.’ Biggles turned and walked away.

  ‘Bowden must have been crazy to act like that,’ remarked Ginger as, in a taxi, they headed for the airport.

  ‘It was his only chance of getting away and he took it. He jolly nearly got away with it, too,’ said Biggles ruefully. ‘After all, he had nothing to lose except his life and he’d probably have lost that, anyway. We had a clear case against him. He must have known me by sight. I didn’t take that possibility into account. But there, one can’t think of everything.’

  ‘You thought of enough to tidy up a cold-blooded murder, if ever there was one, that nearly went on the records as accidental death — and the death of the wrong man, at that.’

  ‘Which all goes to- show that one can’t be sure of anything, not even death,’ returned Biggles tritely. ‘If ever there was a cunningly contrived murder — two murders, in fact — this was it.’

  ‘And but for a fluke it would have come off,’ said Ginger.

  ‘I wouldn’t call it a fluke, exactly,’ replied Biggles. ‘Say, rather, the thing came to light because the murderer made a mistake, his mistake being the choice of an aircraft for a job it couldn’t possibly do. Fortunately, most murderers make a blunder. That’s why they so seldom get away with it.’

  ‘And to think it all began with a forced landing. The Sheikh offered Bowden hospitality. Bowden saw the pearls—’

  ‘And I’d say he’s been wondering ever since how he could get his hands on them,’ concluded Biggles.

  ‘After we’ve tidied up at this end we’ll fly them back to the new sheikh, and do our best to explain that all officers are not like this scoundrel Bowden, otherwise anyone else having a forced landing on that coast is liable to have a thin time.’

  [Back to Contents]

  THE MAN WHO LOST HIS FOOT

  Biggles looked up from his desk as the door of the Air Police office opened and a man walked in. His face was thin and chalky white, and in it his eyes looked unnaturally large and bright. His lips quivered as he said: ‘Hello, Biggles.’

  Staring, Biggles half rose and sank down again. ‘Am I supposed to know you?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course you know me. I’m Nobby Donovan of 241 Squadron.’

  Biggles’ eyes opened wide. ‘Sorry. I wouldn’t have known you. What on earth have you been doing to yourself?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve come to tell you, old man.’

  Biggles glanced at Ginger. ‘Get him a chair.’

  Ginger pulled one forward.

  The ex-pilot slumped into it. ‘Do you know what I’m going to do?’

  ‘Give me a clue.’

  ‘I’m going to bash a brick through a jeweller’s window. Actually, I was on my way to do it when I remembered you and what you were doing nowadays; so I thought I’d drop in and tell you to have a black van handy.’

  ‘Is throwing bricks through windows a new pastime you’ve discovered?’
<
br />   ‘No. This will be the first time.’

  ‘What’s the idea?’

  ‘I want to go to prison. How long will I get, do you think?’

  ‘What you want,’ returned Biggles slowly, ‘is a hospital. Why a prison?’

  ‘It’s the only way I can think of to get myself cured.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘I’m a dope fiend.’

  Biggles offered his cigarette case, the drug addict took one with fingers that so trembled that he dropped it. ‘How did this unholy habit start?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘By accident, I assure you. Don’t be too hard on me. It’s hell, and the only way I can get any comfort is to stay there. You may not remember but I was hit in the Battle of Britain. They had to take my foot off and give me an artificial one. From that time I’ve suffered from the pain people sometimes get after an amputation. Sounds silly, I know, but the pain is in the foot I haven’t got. But the nerve that runs from the foot to the brain is still there, so from time to time it reminds you of what you’ve lost. That’s what the doctors say. They gave me some pills to take the edge off the agony. They helped a bit.’

  ‘They weren’t responsible for your present condition.’

  ‘Oh no. That came about like this, and I think it could have happened to anyone. One day I was out on my job — which I’ve since lost, by the way — when the pain got me. I was in agony. I had no pills on me so I popped into a chemist’s to see if he could do anything about it. He said he thought he could — in fact, I couldn’t have gone to a better place.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He gave me some white powder. It was miraculous. It acted like a charm. For the first time for years I was really free from pain. You fellows who are always fit don’t realize what that means. The stuff was expensive. He charged me three quid, which I thought was a bit steep, and said so. But I had to admit the relief was worth it.’

  ‘Did you ask him the name of this stuff?’

  ‘No. I was only too thankful that the pain had gone.’

  ‘But you know now.’

  ‘I think so. From what I’ve read since I’m pretty sure it must be heroin.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘That was my guess. Carry on.’

  ‘Naturally, the next time I got the pain I went flat out for what seemed like a miracle cure. And so it went on. You can guess the rest. By the time the first suspicion hit me that the stuff was dope I had caught the habit, and you don’t need me to tell you what that means. I just had to have the stuff. It’s all very well for people who have never been in pain to talk about giving up a drug, but let them try it. The crafty devil who was supplying the stuff knew all about that, so he raised the price. Said it was hard to get.’

  ‘That was probably true, anyway,’ put in Biggles.

  ‘Well, the long and short of it is, he’s now had every penny I possessed. I’m flat broke and going out of my mind. I realize he was never afraid of my giving him away because if I did I’d cut off the supply.’

  ‘I gather he won’t let you have any more.’

  ‘He would if I had the money to pay for it. He reckons, of course, that I’ll get the money from somewhere. That’s where he’s wrong. I’ve come to the end of my tether. This is the pay-off.’

  ‘Who is this nasty piece of work and where does he hang out?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘His name is Valesid. I imagine he’s a Greek. Runs a little chemist’s shop in a back street near Paddington station. You can see for yourself what he’s done to me. It frightens me to look in a mirror. This morning I made a resolution, which was to put myself where I couldn’t get the stuff. Hence the going to prison idea.’

  ‘You’re not the first man to have that idea,’ replied Biggles, dryly. ‘But there are less uncomfortable ways of putting yourself beyond reach of temptation. But before we come to that let’s get this straight. You didn’t by any chance come to see me hoping I’d give you money so that you could make a bee-line for Paddington—’

  ‘No,’ broke in Donovan. ‘Definitely not. I’ll take my oath—’

  ‘All right, all right; I’ll take your word for it. Just a minute.’ Biggles picked up a newspaper and turned the pages, studying the advertisements. ‘There’s a cargo boat leaving in the morning for Fremantle, Western Australia, with a few cabins vacant. It’ll take you six weeks to get there. You won’t find any dope on the ship and if you can hold out for six weeks you’ll be cured. I’ll buy you a ticket if you’ll swear not to step off the ship at any intermediate port.’

  ‘I’ll accept that and repay you from the first money I earn.’

  ‘You’ll have a tough time.’

  ‘If I can’t stick it I can always jump overboard.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll fix it. Now for one or two questions. Can you tell me any more about this dope shop?’

  ‘Not much, the little swipe is as tight as an oyster. Has to be, I suppose. But I have an idea the dope reaches him in a Rolls-Royce, and I’ll tell you why. Twice I’ve seen a Rolls pull up and a woman get out. She has a uniformed chauffeur, a coloured man who looks as if he might be an Egyptian. The dame herself is dark and well-dressed; maybe a bit too well-dressed. Naturally I took her to be another customer. Then one day when I called Valesid was out of stock. He told me to come back in half an hour. I was in such a state I paced up and down. Then the Rolls came. When it had gone I went in, and it was okay. He had the stuff.’

  ‘Did you take the number of this car?’

  ‘No. I didn’t think of it at the time.’

  ‘No matter. We’ll get it. Tell me, why didn’t you report this to the police earlier?’

  ‘For two reasons. The first is obvious. Had the police grabbed Valesid I would have cut off my supplies. Secondly, he told me that if I squealed the gang would get me. That could be true, because I often saw sinister dago-looking types hanging about. That’s all.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Biggles. ‘I’m not letting you out of sight till the ship sails. Algy, go with him, get the ticket, give him some lunch and then take him to the flat and stay there.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Algy, quietly. ‘Come on, Donovan.’ They went out.

  Biggles shook his head as he watched them go.

  As the door closed behind them Ginger said: ‘It seems fantastic that a man of his calibre can’t break himself of a habit.’

  ‘Of all narcotics heroin is probably the worst, answered Biggles. ‘It not only destroys a man’s body but his soul. Habit? Addicts who have had the drug withheld have been known to go out of their minds. What about cigarettes? Nicotine is a mild narcotic, and like the rest is habit-forming. Every time the price of cigarettes goes up thousands of people give up smoking. Can they stick it? No. Within a week or two most of them are smoking again. Multiply the smoking habit a hundred times and you’ll get an idea of what a grip a real drug gets on you. In spite of severe penalties drugs have rotted the entire Middle East, which is the centre of the dope racket. The trouble about stopping it is the enormous profits hanging to the traffic. A pound weight of heroin, costing only a matter of shillings to manufacture, can retail at four or five hundred pounds. At one time certain European countries were not above dipping a finger in this profitable pie.’

  ‘What is this stuff heroin, anyway?’

  ‘Heroin is an alkaloid derived from the opium poppy. The coagulated juice taken from the seed-pod is opium. Treated with certain chemicals it becomes morphine. Treated again with anhydride of acetic acid it is converted into a white powder, diacetyl morphine, otherwise heroin.’

  ‘So all you need to get it is to grow the right sort of poppy,’ put in Bertie Lissie.

  ‘Correct. This particular poppy is a plant with grey-green foliage and single mauve flowers. The best comes from the high ground in Asia Minor. The question we’re faced with now is, how is it coming into the country? I think I’ll have a word with Inspector Gaskin. He’ll have to know about this sooner or later.’ Biggles called the Inspector’s office and asked him to
come up.

  The detective came. Biggles told him the story.

  ‘What do you want me to do — pick up this dope pedlar?’ asked the Inspector, when he had finished.

  ‘And let the big shot get away? Not likely. That shop at Paddington won’t be the only one. When we strike we’ve got to nail the lot. My angle will be to find out how the stuff is being imported. What I’d like you to do is work on the Rolls. You’ll spot it if you watch the shop. Who owns it? Mark where it goes. You’ll have to be careful, or at the first sniff that they’re being trailed they’ll vanish — or the dope will. When you’ve got the gen come and have another word with me.’

  ‘Okay.’ The C.I.D. Inspector departed.

  For a week nothing was seen of him. Then he walked in. ‘We’re all set if you’re ready to go,’ he announced.

  ‘Do you know how the stuff’s getting into the country?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘No. Do you?’

  ‘No. Yet every port, sea and air, has been alerted. Until we have that information we’re not ready to go anywhere, because whatever else we do the stuff will continue to arrive. What have you been able to find out?’

  Gaskin filled his pipe, slowly and methodically. ‘The Rolls belongs to an Egyptian-Greek named Arbram Nifar. Got a house in Hill Street, Mayfair. He’s a high-class Turkish and Egyptian cigarette importer — in a small way, I’d say, since he doesn’t seem to handle any of the known brands. Still, he seems to do himself pretty well. His wife does most of the running about. She’s got an Egyptian chauffeur whom she calls Ali, and seems to be on good terms with some of the wide boys who drift around the West End night clubs apparently living on air. We’ve traced the car to shops in Paddington, Soho, Limehouse and Mayfair. These four seem to be the lot. Nifar and his wife spend the week-ends out of Town. Seems they’ve got a farm in Devon. Probably one of these tax-dodging set-ups. I can’t imagine him farming for any other reason.’

  ‘Unless the farm comes into the dope racket,’ suggested Biggles. ‘It could be to that address the importer delivers the stuff. He may think a London house is too dangerous.’