Biggles of the Interpol

by W E Johns

  ‘That’s what we’re here for. Sit down and I’ll tell you about it. Foster is up against one of those riddles that look simple but are a bit tricky. There lives in Brazil, in Rio de Janeiro to be precise, a handsome young lady named Dolores Cantani. She is a cabaret dancer in a well-known night club. One of her several friends is a man named José da Silvaro, who derives a considerable income from emerald mines somewhere in the interior. He has a brother in London who looks after the European side of the business. Foster has been some time getting these facts lined up, both over here and through our contacts in Rio.’

  ‘The lady has, I presume, visited our happy land.’

  ‘She’s making a habit of it,’ returned the Air Commodore, dryly. ‘The first time she came here Foster paid no particular attention, there being no reason why he should. She came — so she said — for a holiday, arriving at London Airport in an aircraft of Inter-Atlan Airways, which, as you know, is an international concern. She had with her, as presents for her friends, a small parcel of inferior emeralds. She declared them and paid duty.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘As you say, fair enough. At this time, you understand, Foster knew nothing about her, nothing about da Silvaro or his brother over here. She stayed a week. It was when Foster was making up his returns that it struck him as a bit odd that a dancer should spend several months’ pay on an air fare to come here for a week. When, three months later, she turned up again, this time with a few mediocre uncut diamonds, he began to think seriously.’

  ‘Did she declare them?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She paid the duty without a murmur, which was in itself suspicious, because the stones were so small that had she not declared them she could probably have got them through Customs without them being found. She may not have known that one of the most common tricks of non-professional smugglers is to make a great show of honesty by declaring some trivial object in the hope of getting away with something more expensive in the bottom of the bag. Foster, now suspicious, had her searched. He found nothing. Dolores stayed ten days, having had another expensive holiday for a return fare running into three figures. It was at this time that Foster made inquiries, with results I have told you.’

  A slow smile spread over Biggles’ face. ‘Don’t say she came again!’

  ‘She did, about six months ago, bringing her usual flashing smile and a few presents on which, as before, she paid duty without a whimper. This time Foster went as far as he dare. As you know, these fellows develop a sort of instinct where crooks are concerned, and they are seldom wrong. He knew she was cheating; yet in spite of all the female searchers could do they found nothing — and they’re experts. They know where to look. Dolores, instead of being angry, was slightly amused. Foster was not amused. He had to apologize, and pay compensation for a certain amount of damage done to her luggage. He’s prepared to swear she hadn’t a single dutiable article on her. He’s also prepared to swear, although he hasn’t a shred of evidence, that she’s working a smuggling racket. After all, transatlantic trips are expensive. How could she afford them?’

  ‘Maybe her gem-king boy friend paid the bill.’

  ‘No doubt he did. Boy friends often give presents to their girl friends. But why trips to Europe? What pleasure could da Silvaro get out of that?’

  ‘Having no girl friends I wouldn’t know. What does all this add up to?’

  ‘Foster has had the starry-eyed Dolores checked in Rio. She has just bought another return ticket to London. She leaves next Saturday. That gives you a week.’

  ‘A week for what?’

  ‘To get out there and travel back with her. Keep an eye on her. Spot what she’s doing, and how she’s doing it. She may have a confederate on the plane. If so, signals will pass between them. Something may happen when the plane calls at the Azores for fuel. I don’t know. It’s up to you.’

  Biggles stubbed his cigarette. ‘This isn’t really in my line but I’ll see what I can make of it.’

  ‘All right. I’ll radio our agent in Rio to book you a seat on the plane as close as possible to number seven.’

  ‘Why seven?’

  ‘That’s the number of her seat. She always has the same one.’

  ‘Why?’

  The Air Commodore smiled. ‘Ask her. Superstition, perhaps. Seven is a popular number with many people. She says it’s the most comfortable seat — least vibration, least noise.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘She may be right. We’ll see.’

  When, on the following Saturday, the Inter-Atlan Douglas left Rio for London, Biggles was sitting a few seats behind the good-looking, expensively-dressed brunette who had been pointed out to him as Dolores Cantani. He had watched her in the waiting lounge. He had watched her, and ten other passengers, board the plane without any sign of recognition. This he expected, for he had checked the bona fides of the passengers and found them in order. Of the ten, six were British. All were in legitimate business. The behaviour of Dolores Cantani was in perfect accord with her avowed purpose. She was going to Europe for a holiday.

  She took the meals served by the air hostess with the healthy appetite of one without a care in the world. Between meals she read a book, twice ringing for a drink. From time to time she chewed gum, a habit not uncommon in aircraft. Nothing happened at the Azores, and the plane was now on the last leg of its journey to London.

  Biggles was puzzled. He was also a little annoyed, for it began to look as if he had made a fruitless journey. A feeling grew on him that on this occasion Foster had been wrong. If previous searches had failed to reveal anything the same was likely to happen again. If the girl was running contraband her method was certainly original.

  It was on these lines that Biggles was thinking when the big machine touched down on its runway at London Airport. Here, within the next few minutes, if the girl was in fact guilty, would be his last chance of catching her, for after the passengers had disembarked Foster would take over, as had been arranged.

  As the passengers filed away for passport and customs formalities Foster hurried up to him. ‘See anything?’ queried the Customs officer tersely.

  ‘Nothing,’ returned Biggles. ‘She didn’t speak to anyone. She didn’t move from her seat. If she’s carrying contraband you’ll have to find it. I haven’t a clue. I’ll wait here,’ he concluded, as Foster strode away, tight-lipped.

  He watched the pilots and crew pack up and walk away, their work finished. Maintenance men arrived casually, to deal with the aircraft. With them came a plain, dark-eyed girl carrying the equipment to spray the interior of the machine with insecticide and so prevent the importation of malignant mosquitoes or other objectionable insects. A slight frown lined Biggles’ forehead as he watched her go to the open door. Her jaws moved in the manner of one chewing gum. Dolores had chewed gum. Was it coincidence or was there more to it?

  He walked quickly to the door, and moving quietly, looked inside. The girl was stooping over the seat numbered seven.

  As he stepped out Foster returned. ‘She’s beaten us again,’ he muttered. ‘A few small emeralds which she declared. It doesn’t make sense. Why send someone to London with a parcel which, as the contents were declared, might as well have been sent by post?’

  ‘A girl is disinfecting the plane — a dark-eyed lass with black hair,’ replied Biggles evenly. ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Sounds like Miss Varros. That’s her job. What about it?’

  ‘Let’s see how well she does it,’ suggested Biggles, moving forward.

  Foster stared. ‘What’s the idea?’

  ‘She chews gum. It can be useful stuff. There was a time when most long-distance pilots carried it to plug a possible leaky tank.’

  The girl came down the steps just as they reached them. Biggles stopped her. ‘Excuse me, are you Miss Varros?’

  The girl moved something in her mouth before she answered. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You like chewing gum?’

  Some of the colour left the girl’s face. �
�What about it?’

  ‘I’m wondering if it’s the same brand that Miss Gantani uses. May we see it?’

  Any colour that was left drained from the face of the spray-gun operator.

  ‘Be careful not to swallow it,’ warned Biggles. ‘The consequences might be serious.’

  For perhaps five seconds the girl stared at Biggles stonily. Then she ejected something into her hand and passed to Biggles what looked like a lump of clay. ‘Okay,’ she said quietly. ‘I see you know. I told her she’d do it once too often.’

  Biggles opened the gum to expose two magnificent emeralds. He handed them to Foster. ‘Is this what you’ve been looking for?’

  Said Foster, looking at the girl, ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘Dolores is my half sister,’ was the answer. ‘She and Mr da Silvaro, for whom I used to work, and who helped me to get this job, persuaded me into it. It looked easy, I must say.’

  Said Biggles: ‘She stuck the stones under seat seven with chewing gum; you collected them and handed them to her later.’

  ‘To da Silvaro,’ returned the girl bitterly. ‘He wasn’t taking chances.’

  ‘I’ll see you inside, Miss Varros,’ said Foster curtly. As the girl walked away he turned to Biggles. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘If ever you’re out of a job come and see me.’

  Smiling, Biggles took a cigarette from his case. ‘Not for me,’ he murmured. ‘Being flown by people I don’t know frightens me to death. You can buy me a drink, instead.’

  [Back to Contents]

  EQUATORIAL ENCOUNTER

  Biggles was in the Air Police office discussing some recently released aircraft performance figures with his police pilots when the intercom telephone buzzed.

  ‘That will be the Old Man,’ he said, as he reached for the receiver. ‘I know his buzz. Hello, sir,’ he went on, speaking into the instrument. He listened for a moment. ‘Okay, sir. I’ll be down right away.’ He glanced at the others as he got up. ‘Wants to see me,’ he explained. ‘From his tone of voice I’d say he has something urgent on his mind so stand by to pull on your seven-league boots.’

  He went down to the office of the chief of his department, Air Commodore Raymond, of the Special Air Police, knocked, and without waiting for a reply, entered.

  The Air Commodore was at his desk with some papers in front of him. ‘Come in,’ he requested. ‘Sit down. We may be some time. Have a cigarette.’ He pushed the box forward.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ accepted Biggles. ‘What’s the hurry this time?’

  ‘It’s a longish story. I’d better run over the whole thing so that you can get all the angles from the outset.’

  Biggles lit his cigarette.

  ‘Some years ago,’ stated the Air Commodore, ‘a certain foreign motor tyre manufacturer thought he could produce rubber more cheaply than he could buy it from us in Malaya; so he took some land in the country from which rubber first came, Brazil, and planted his own trees. You may remember what happened.’

  ‘He planted them too close together, with the result they were attacked by a disease and died.’

  ‘Right. Not to be thwarted he cleared more jungle in Liberia, the Negro state on the coast of West Africa, and tried again. More trees were planted, but it seemed that the people there didn’t care much for manual labour, so as it is no place for a white man to work with his hands, again the scheme looked like being a failure. However, later on, as the trees matured and the price of rubber went up, some people did muster the energy to tap the trees, and a fair amount of rubber is now exported. Others did even better. Following the example of a Scot named Anderson they planted certain other trees that yield valuable gums and essential oils now in demand by modern industry. These products came to the coast, to Monrovia, the capital, where they were picked up as extra cargo by passing ships. We came to rely on this source of these particular commodities. You follow me?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘A short while ago these supplies, for no apparent reason, began to dwindle. They became less and less and have now fizzled out altogether, greatly to the concern of the people who depended on them.’

  ‘Bad luck.’

  ‘Maybe luck had nothing to do with it. It’s a serious matter. Where is the stuff going?’

  ‘Can’t this chap Anderson tell you?’

  ‘We’ve lost touch with him.’

  ‘Perhaps there isn’t any more stuff. The natives could have got tired again.’

  “That isn’t the answer. We infiltrated an agent. He couldn’t find Anderson, but he reports that work is still going on, if anything harder than ever. I repeat, where is the stuff going? The shortage is putting us to quite a lot of inconvenience and holding up certain exports.’

  ‘Obviously, it’s going out another way — through Sierra Leone, Ghana, the Ivory Coast or Guinea. What does this agent fellow think about it?’

  ‘He’s a coloured man, a Jamaican named Joseph Nelson. For a time we had messages regularly. The last one said there were rumours of aircraft operating to and ffom the hinterland, using a new airstrip, and he was trying to confirm it. That was a month ago. Since when we’ve heard nothing.’

  ‘You think he went a bit too far and ran into trouble?’

  ‘It begins to look like that. Nelson was a thoroughly reliable man.’

  ‘I don’t quite see what the excitement is about. Surely if Anderson, or the locals, have found a better market, it’s up to them to take it.’

  ‘Agreed, provided pressure is not being used to force them, against their wishes, to do that. Are they getting more money? We don’t know. What is certain is this: we are now being compelled to buy these commodities in another market, and pay through the nose for them. There is a suspicion that we are actually getting the same stuff through different channels — at double the price.’

  ‘In other words, a middleman has stepped in and is skimming the cream off the milk.’

  ‘Yes. He may be working for himself or for an organization in competition with us. If the raw material goes up in price it follows that the finished product must go up too, with the result that our competitors can undercut us and we lose the orders. But as I say, this is fair enough provided the natives are getting a square deal; but if they have been turned into a sort of labour force, with the deliberate intention of working against our interests, it becomes a different matter altogether.’

  ‘If the profits are high enough, air transport, even in those conditions, would become a proposition,’ murmured Biggles. ‘With plenty of labour available the clearing of an area for a landing ground would present no great difficulty. Did this chap Nelson give you any idea of the position of this alleged airstrip?’

  ‘No. Obviously he didn’t know or he’d have reported it. He was, presumably, on his way to confirm the rumour when he sent in his last message.’

  ‘Where was he then?’

  ‘He said he was somewhere near the frontiers of Liberia and French territory.’

  ‘That’s a bit vague.’

  ‘It couldn’t be otherwise. There are no actual boundaries.’

  ‘He was evidently well inland.’

  ‘Yes. But there is this about it. The place from which Nelson wrote, which must have been no great distance from the airstrip — assuming that there is one — would be within easy flying distance of Sierra Leone, or the Ivory Coast, either of which could be used for refuelling and maintenance. No doubt your friend, Marcel Brissac of the Paris Sûreté, would arrange facilities for you at French airfields should it be necessary.’

  ‘I see.’ Biggles stubbed his cigarette. ‘I take it you’d like me to run out there and cast an eye over the district for you.’

  ‘We must do that if for no other purpose than to find out what has become of Anderson and Nelson.’

  ‘Haven’t we any people on the ground there who could do that?’

  ‘Possibly. But I’m thinking of the time factor. Overland travel in that part of the world can’t be anything but slow. The
only thing that travels fast is news, which means that if there’s any funny business going on the people responsible would hear of the approach of an investigating officer long before he got there, and take steps accordingly. If, as it seems, we’re dealing with aviation, it would be better, anyway, to have an air expert on the job.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘All right, sir. I don’t like these frontier assignments because you never know whose toes you’re treading on; but I’ll go out and see what I can make of it.’

  ‘Be careful. It’s a bit tricky. Don’t upset Liberia. They’re likely to be very touchy.’

  ‘There you go,’ said Biggles sadly. ‘Raising snags before I start. But don’t worry. I shall probably park myself at Freetown, in Sierra Leone, and operate from there. Alternatively, if that isn’t suitable, I could arrange to use Kankan, in Guinea. Anyway, I’ll find a base somewhere and make a general survey for this landing strip, or any other signs of aviation. If there is dirty work going on it’s pretty certain there will be a white man in the background, in which case he’ll have a headquarters. When I find it you can tell me what do next.’

  The Air Commodore smiled. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Well, I’ll get on with it,’ concluded Biggles.

  From his base, at Freetown, Sierra Leone, using the Air Police Wellington with its full crew, for nearly a week Biggles had searched the northern frontiers of Liberia without result. This meant flying over French territory, but satisfied in his mind that nothing could pass through the British colonies on either side without being observed, with the consent of Interpol Headquarters in Paris he had concentrated on the north. Marcel Brissac, of the Sûreté, knew what he was doing, but having no particular interest in the assignment had not joined him.

  The nature of the country below, upon which he had often looked down, was not, on the face of it, the sort to simplify his task, consisting as it did for the most part of equatorial rain forest, sometimes flat and sometimes mountainous, that gave way only in certain areas to scrub and sandy wastes. Farther north, towards Senegal, this in turn broke down to true desert.