Biggles of the Interpol

by W E Johns

  Yet from the very fact that the country was so heavily wooded he felt sure that an open space large enough for an aircraft landing should not be difficult to find — if, in fact, one was there. As he said, there was a doubt about it, for the only evidence of its existence was through unsubstantiated native rumour. The doubt became larger as time went on, due to some extent perhaps to the constant anxiety of wondering where he himself would get down in the event of engine trouble, particularly when in the region of the formidable Nimba mountains.

  However, on the morning of the sixth day the matter was brought to a head in a way that not only settled the issue but explained why the quest had so far been unsuccessful.

  They were over scrub country when Ginger, who was sitting beside him, suddenly exclaimed: ‘Bandit below us under the port bow.’

  Biggles’ eyes switched to the direction indicated.

  An aircraft, flying over two thousand feet below their own altitude of four thousand, appeared to be gliding over the tree-tops like a giant dragonfly.

  Even as he spotted it his hand was pushing the throttle wide open for power to climb between the stranger and the sun, a position from which he hoped, if he had not already been seen, to escape observation. ‘It’s coming from the east,’ he remarked. ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘Looks like one of those twin-engined Samsons the Americans were mass-producing at the end of the war for freight hauling.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ agreed Biggles, throttling back to cruising speed and turning slowly to follow. ‘I’d rather not get any closer at the moment. Tell the others we have struck the trail.’

  Ginger passed the news on the intercom. ‘If that chap’s flying a compass course, and is dead on it, I don’t know where he’s making for,’ he said, studying the map on his knees. ‘There’s no possible objective straight in front of him — just wild country. And if he goes much farther he’ll be over the big timber.’

  ‘Take a look at the carpet and you’ll see where he’s making for,’ returned Biggles dryly.

  Staring down Ginger saw the astonishing spectacle of shrubs and bushes moving aside to leave an open area between them. ‘Well, knock me for six,’ he ejaculated.

  ‘Honest men in peace-time don’t need to camouflage their airfields,’ observed Biggles cynically. ‘Whatever their game is they’re up to no good. No wonder we couldn’t find the airstrip! There he goes down. I’ll move away a bit so that they don’t hear our engine noise when they switch off.’

  ‘They may have seen us already.’

  ‘We can take no harm by supposing they haven’t. We’re in the sun, and the people down there will naturally be watching their own machine.’

  For another five minutes Biggles held his course away from the landing ground. Then he started slowly to turn again. ‘Could you pin-point that strip?’ he asked.

  ‘To within a mile or two, if you call that a pin-point. There’s nothing I can see to mark the frontier.’

  ‘Do you reckon it to be in French territory or Liberia?’

  ‘I’d say just over the French side.’

  ‘We can argue it later,’ asserted Biggles. ‘I’m going to land there to see what goes on.’

  ‘Isn’t that taking a chance?’

  ‘Perhaps. But we shall have to land there some time and I can’t see any advantage to be gained by delay. Moreover, it might not be easy to find the place again when they’ve replaced the shrubbery. They’re not actually obstructions. From the way they were being carried they’re too flimsy for that. All the same, we should look silly if we tried to get down in the wrong place and ran into something solid. I see they’ve got the machine out of sight already. A nice little set-up.’

  As the Wellington glided on Biggles announced his plan to the others. ‘When we get on the floor I shall take Ginger with me and have a look round. I want you, Algy and Bertie, to remain in the machine, in the cockpit, ready for a snappy take-off should it become necessary. It might be as well if you kept your heads down so that the people below won’t know there’s anyone else on board. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ confirmed Algy.

  Looking ahead as Biggles made his approach Ginger could see some men standing on the fringe of the shade cast by trees that straggled forward from the forest. They were close together, faces upturned, apparently in conversation as they watched the Wellington touch down and run to a stop near them. Their aircraft stood farther back under the same trees.

  Leaving the Wellington with its nose pointing to open ground Biggles switched off and jumped down. Ginger followed, his eyes busy. He noted several palm-thatched huts far enough back under the trees to prevent them from being seen from above.

  With Biggles he walked towards the men who, with expressionless faces, stood watching them. Two were definitely white men. There was a doubt about two others. Nearby a filthy Negro squatted on the ground gnawing a bone. From his fantastic dress he was clearly a witch-doctor, or perhaps some sort of chief.

  ‘Good morning,’ greeted Biggles, speaking in English, that being the standard language used in Liberia.

  ‘Lost your way?’ queried one of the men. He spoke with a strong American accent.

  ‘Not exactly,’ returned Biggles. ‘We happened to spot your airstrip, and not being able to find it on our map we dropped in to make sure we were not fooling ourselves. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Surveying for a new air route. What do you reckon you’re doing? You’ve been up and down a good many times lately. We’ve seen you. Where have you come from?’

  ‘Freetown,’ answered Biggles. ‘We, too, have been having a look round with a view to opening up the district.’ He smiled, indicating the witch-doctor. ‘Is this a sample of the passengers you hope to carry?’

  The second white man spoke curtly. ‘We shall carry freight.’ He, too, had an accent, but it gave no indication of his nationality.

  ‘Queer we didn’t notice your airstrip before,’ said Biggles casually.

  ‘You must fly with your eyes shut. It’s always here. We ain’t got nothing to hide.’

  ‘I didn’t suggest that you had,’ replied Biggles, blandly. ‘Just as a matter of interest, are we in Liberia or on French colonial soil? The boundaries are not easy to see.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. Does it matter?’

  Biggles shrugged. ‘It might. It depends on how people feel about their property.’

  The man grinned unpleasantly. ‘We’ll chance it.’

  ‘Okay, if that’s how you feel about it,’ said Biggles. ‘We’ll get along.’

  At this juncture, by what was a piece of bad luck for the men there, although they appeared not to realize it, there came from no great distance away a series of sounds that brought a frown of perplexity to Biggles’ face. One suggested that a small-bore rifle was being fired.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  The men looked at each other. One muttered something under his breath, and made as if to walk away; but he had only taken a step or two when the cause of the noise appeared from the forest. It was a line of Negroes carrying heavy loads. Beside them marched a white man, carrying, and sometimes cracking, a whip. Reaching one of the sheds the blacks dropped their loads and sank down like men exhausted by a long journey.

  ‘Do you have to do that?’ asked Biggles quietly.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Use a whip on these fellows.’

  ‘It lets them see who’s boss.’

  ‘What’s that stuff they’ve just brought in?’

  ‘Local produce.’

  Biggles inclined his head towards the witch-doctor. ‘What does he have to say about it?’

  The man smiled unpleasantly. ‘Oh, him! He organizes it. Keeps the mob in order when they’re inclined to kick. Funny business, this mumbo-jumbo stuff, but the poor fools believe in it.’

  ‘So I understand,’ murmured Biggles evenly.

  ‘That old bag o’ bones has only to tell one of ‘em that he’s a’ goin’
to die and the poor guy just sits down and dies. It don’t make sense to me, but there it is.’

  ‘As you say, there it is,’ agreed Biggles. ‘Well, we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say anything about this near the coast — you know how it is.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Wa’al, you know how some people talk, always ready to start a scream about what they call the ill-treatment of their poor black brothers.’

  ‘Maybe they have reason to.’

  ‘What are you trying to give me?’

  ‘It all depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Several things.’

  ‘Smart guy, eh. Nobody asked you to poke your nose in. What goes on here is no concern of yours, so forget it.’

  Biggles hesitated. ‘You may be right, at that,’ he agreed.

  ‘Sure I’m right. And if you’re wise you’ll remember it.’

  Biggles did not answer. Turning, he walked back to the Wellington.

  ‘Are you going to let ‘em get away with that?’ demanded Ginger indignantly, as they climbed in.

  ‘I hope not,’ answered Biggles. ‘At the moment we’re in no position to argue. Before we can do that we shall have to know whose ground we’re standing on. If it’s French, all right. If it’s Liberia we shall have to step warily.’

  ‘What about Anderson? That bunch could tell you what happened to him.’

  ‘If he’s still alive another day or two won’t hurt him. If he’s dead, there’s even less need for haste. Those fellows were satisfied in their minds that we were just a couple of mug Britishers; but had we made a move towards those sheds I fancy their behaviour would have been very different. They fell for my bluff that we were merely having a look round. Had they suspected what we were really doing here they’d have shown their teeth — the teeth I could see bulging from their pockets. The rats. Little they care what mischief they do. Now you see how rumours get about of white men beating up the natives in their colonies. Don’t worry. It shouldn’t take us long to get this business buttoned up now we know what’s going on.’

  They climbed into the plane, and Biggles took off.

  From a distance, looking back, Ginger could see the bushes being replaced.

  ‘Looks as if we’re back to slavery, old boy,’ came Bertie’s voice over the intercom.

  ‘It won’t go on much longer,’ promised Biggles. ‘We’ve found what we were looking for. The Air Commodore wasn’t far out in his summing up of the situation.’

  ‘What do you reckon is going on?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘It’s pretty obvious. That nasty piece of work who did the talking must have known about Anderson’s produce going through to the coast and decided to grab it for himself. There may be behind him a big businessman who wants the stuff, or sees a way to make easy money by raising the price of it. But that’s as may be. We’ll deal with the man on the spot. His job wasn’t very difficult. All he had to do was get that witch-doctor in his pocket, probably by bribery. The witch-doctor would then give orders to those wretched blacks, who wouldn’t dare to disobey. The fellow said that himself.’

  ‘But what about Anderson?’

  ‘We shall find out what happened to him in due course. The gang may have gone to him, and others, with an offer for their produce. Anderson, we may be sure, would refuse to have anything to do with such a deal. If they tried to force him, he, being a Scot, would fight, but even he would be helpless against what that fellow rightly called mumbo-jumbo. Anyway, something like that must have’ happened, with the result that Anderson has disappeared. Nelson, the agent sent to inyestigate, must have been hot on the trail when he, too, ran into trouble.’

  ‘Where are you making for now?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘Kankan. From there I’ll send a cable to Marcel. The next step is to find out on whose territory that airstrip has been laid out. I’m hoping it will turn out to be on French soil, because Marcel could then act with authority, which we could not. If we took the law into our own hands we should find ourselves in the wrong, particularly if a foreign national was hurt.’

  ‘Suppose the place happens to be in Liberia?’

  ‘In that case we shall have to take a chance and handle things our own way, whatever may come of it. Anderson and Nelson may still be alive. We can’t abandon them. If they’ve been murdered — well, even though the roof flies off the House of Commons, or any other parliament building, I’ll see that somebody pays for it.’

  ‘The Air Commodore would throw a fit if he heard you talking like that,’ said Ginger, smiling.

  ‘He knew when he took me on that in some things I go my own way,’ answered Biggles, grimly. ‘I’m not standing for murder for him or anyone else.’

  Ginger said no more.

  The Wellington flew on, and in the early afternoon landed at Kankan, the airport in Guinea. From there Biggles sent a cable to Marcel asking him to join them as quickly as possible, bringing with him the largest scale map available of the district concerned.

  They had to wait for three days for his arrival. Then, in the airport waiting-room, with the map Marcel had brought open in front of them, Biggles explained the position. ‘That’s the spot, as near as I can make it,’ he concluded, marking the map with his pencil.

  ‘It’s on our soil, but only just,’ decided Marcel. ‘This may answer a question for me, too. There is now so much increase of freight at Port Bouet, on the Ivory Coast, that the Customs men there complain they are overworked.’

  ‘How does that come into it?’

  ‘A railway links Porte Bouet with Bouflé, in the interior. It is from Bouflé that these goods are coming. There is also at Bouflé an aerodrome. It is to the east of this mark you have made. The plane you saw came from the east. Voilà! It adds up, as you say, mon ami. It could be from Port Bouet that the merchandise carried by these slaves leaves the country.’

  ‘By thunder! I believe you’ve got it,’ declared Biggles. ‘The stuff is flown to Bouflé, and there put on rail for the coast where it is picked up and shipped by a contact man working with the gang.’

  Marcel shrugged. ‘It is so simple. The goods are not contraband. Duty can be paid and all is well. Tiens — tiens — tiens.’

  ‘It may be well for you, but not for us.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Do you allow slavery in your colonies?’

  ‘But of course not.’

  ‘Very well. Here’s the answer. This gang, operating on French soil, is forcing natives to work by threats and violence. You must investigate; and while you’re doing that we’ll do a little investigating, too.’

  ‘Tell me this, old dog,’ requested Marcel. ‘Why do these men have the dirty necks to work on French ground?’

  ‘For the simple reason there’s no other spot within miles from which an aircraft could operate. It would need an army of men to cut an airstrip in the Liberian forest.’

  ‘So,’ breathed Marcel. ‘Always you have the answer. Let us go. I will ask to see their permission to make an aerodrome on French soil. Let us hope they are rude, and make trouble.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if they say they are sorry, they make a mistake, what can we do? They retire to Liberia, and wait until we have gone to start again. But if they throw their weights about, la la, I put them in prison for resistance to the police.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘That,’ he said softly, ‘should put them out of business.’

  ‘Bon. We go in the morning. Some of our policemen shall come with us. But what if the bushes are put out? How do we land?’

  ‘I can find the place. As for the bushes, if we touch them they are so light they could do no harm.’

  ‘Entendu.’

  Early the next morning, the Wellington, with Marcel and four French colonial policemen, in uniform, in the cabin, took off and headed for the secret airfield.

  As it happened the camouflage had been removed, the reason being that th
e Samson was being loaded, and would soon, presumably, take off for another flight. The arrival of the Wellington over the scene caused this work to be suspended, those engaged in it forming a compact little group to watch it land.

  Biggles went in, taxied on to where the men and the machine were standing, and switched off. ‘Go ahead, Marcel,’ he said. ‘Watch out for trouble. These stiffs may think that so far from the coast they can get away with anything. I’m with you.’

  Marcel, now in charge of the operation, jumped down, followed by the rest. He marched up to the group and addressed the man who had acted as spokesman on the occasion of Biggles’ previous visit.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

  ‘You can see for yourself, can’t you? We’ve nothing to hide,’ was the insolent answer.

  ‘If you’ve nothing to hide why try to hide it with camouflage?’ Marcel pointed to the heaps of bushes. Nodding towards a huddle of Negroes he went on: ‘Who are these men? What are they doing here?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with you?’

  ‘It has plenty to do with me,’ returned Marcel crisply. ‘You’re on French government property and I want to see your papers.’

  The man, pale with anger, glared at Biggles. ‘I suppose I can thank you for this, you dirty, sneaking snooper—’

  ‘All right. Cut the compliments,’ rasped Biggles. ‘Being abusive won’t help you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You should know. Your little game is about played out.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘I say so.’

  ‘You and who else?’

  ‘The French police.’

  Marcel stepped in. ‘That is enough. Where is your permission from my government to make an aerodrome here?’

  ‘What are you trying to give me?’ snarled the man. ‘I don’t need no papers.’

  ‘So you haven’t any,’ said Marcel coldly. ‘In that case you are all under arrest.’

  Biggles took a pace nearer to the blacks, many of whom bore marks of the whip. Pointing to the pile of bundles awaiting shipment he asked: ‘Does this belong to Mr Anderson?’