Biggles of the Interpol

by W E Johns

  Biggles smiled. ‘So he didn’t pay.’

  ‘No, the coyote.’

  ‘He took you to the cleaners and left you to take the rap. Nice pal.’ Biggles took from a drawer some five-pound notes. ‘Here’s the money you left in France.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Keston peeled off a note and offered it to Biggles.

  Biggles’ eyebrows went up. ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘The bet was a fiver he didn’t pay. Well, he hasn’t paid, so I lose. When I lose I pay.’

  Biggles brushed the note aside. ‘Keep it. I like my money clean.’

  ‘Then what was the idea of the bet?’

  ‘The idea was, if this crook didn’t pay, you’d help me to find him — and make him pay.’

  ‘I’d make him pay on my own account if I could find him.’

  ‘Fair enough, Keston. That’s what I mean — we’ll do the job together.’

  ‘And how will you find him?’

  ‘I’ll tell you. Listen. This crook pulled a fast one on you. He’s probably done it before. But whether he has or whether he hasn’t, as it’s come off he’ll try it again. I know what I’m talking about and you can take my word for it. That’s why I’m here. The chances are that at this very moment your pal is looking for another poor sap to do his dirty work for him.’

  ‘Okay. I was a sucker. I know it, but don’t rub it in.’

  ‘If I’m right your pal will be hanging round another airfield. Not the same one. He might run into you. You say you’re crazy to fly. All right. Now you can go ahead. Ginger, my assistant, who is standing by you, will fly you round all the clubs in the country until you spot your man. If you’re nice to him and don’t try any funny stuff maybe Ginger will let you do a spot of aviation.’

  ‘What happens if I see the guy?’

  ‘All you have to do is point him out to Ginger. He’ll do the rest. What you must not do is let the fellow see you.’

  ‘I get it. But what about the thirty quid he owes me?’

  ‘You might as well forget about that. He’s no intention of paying or he’d have paid.’

  ‘Maybe he couldn’t find me to give it to me.’

  ‘He could have sent it by post, couldn’t he? Your name and address, with your photo, were in the newspapers, so he knew what had happened to you. Don’t fool yourself that he ever intended paying. Anyway, after what you did I doubt if you’re entitled to the money — from the official aspect. It was a bribe to make you break the law.’

  ‘That’s okay by me. When do we start aviating?’

  ‘As the weather’s fine, now. By the way, do I understand this man was an American?’

  ‘He talked like one.’

  ‘I believe there’s an American camp near Lotton, where he picked you up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Biggles turned to Ginger. ‘Start with the flying club fields near American camps.’

  ‘Right. Come on, Keston. Let’s get mobile.’

  It was four days before Biggles heard from either of them. Then Keston walked into the Ops. Room alone.

  Biggles raised his eyebrows. ‘Where’s Ginger?’

  ‘On the trail. We found the guy watching the flying on the Cliverton Club airfield. There’s an American camp close by so your idea worked out. Ginger sent me home by train to report, saying he was going to try something.’

  ‘What do you reckon he meant by that?’

  ‘He said he’d watch the guy to see if he picked up another mug, but I’ve an idea he was hoping to be picked up himself.’

  ‘Ah!’ breathed Biggles. ‘If that comes off the next we shall hear from him will be on the high frequency radio. You can stick around if you like. I may need you for evidence of identification.’

  Algy was on radio duty when, the same night, after dark, the signal came through.

  ‘Ginger’s on his way to France with a packet,’ he reported to Biggles.

  ‘Great work. What’s his objective?’

  ‘Charmentray — the same landing ground as Keston. A red light will mark the actual spot.’

  Biggles frowned. ‘I hope Ginger gets in all right. It isn’t easy.’

  ‘What’s the idea of choosing such a tricky place?’

  ‘To keep under cover of the trees, I suppose. I can’t imagine any other reason. The country around is open and a plane landing would be seen.’

  ‘Ah-ha. Ginger wants to know the drill. Is he to carry on?’

  Biggles thought for a moment. ‘He’s by himself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We can’t let him handle the job single-handed. It’s too dangerous. Besides, he can’t make arrests in France. Tell him to land at Le Bourget and wait for me there. I shall have to speak to Marcel and ask him how he wants this handled. When you’ve spoken to Ginger you might get the Sûreté for me on the private line.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  It was nearly three hours later when the police Auster arrived over the Charmentray rendezvous. In it were Biggles, Ginger, and Marcel Brissac, of the French Air Police.

  ‘There’s the red light,’ observed Ginger. ‘The thing begins to look like a piece of cake.’

  ‘Provided I can get down without breaking anything,’ answered Biggles. ‘It’s a bit trappy. Fortunately, I’ve done it once.’

  A few minutes later the Auster’s wheels touched down without mishap. Said Biggles, ‘Let me go first. If he sees more than one he may take fright.’ He got out alone.

  A man at once emerged from the gloom and hurried towards him.

  ‘Is this what you’re waiting for?’ queried Biggles, holding out a bulky envelope.

  ‘Sure. And you can take this back with you,’ was the crisp answer.

  The man put a small parcel into Biggles’ hands.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Biggles.

  ‘That’s all. So long.’ The man turned to go.

  Biggles caught him by the arm. ‘Not quite all,’ he snapped. ‘I’m a police officer, and I...’

  ‘You—’ snarled the man, tearing his arm free. He started to run. Biggles tripped him and he fell.

  By this time Marcel and Ginger were on the scene. As the man scrambled to his feet a pistol blazed from his hip. Ginger grabbed the arm that held the gun, but it took all three of them to hold him until the handcuffs were on his wrists. Then some men whom Marcel had sent down by road ran up and that settled the matter.

  Biggles opened the packet that had been given to Ginger for delivery and showed the contents to Marcel.

  Marcel, panting, holding a blood-stained handkerchief to his cheek, addressed the cursing prisoner grimly. ‘For importing counterfeit dollar bills you would have gone to prison for a long time. For shooting a police officer you will go for a much longer time. Take him away.’

  ‘Let’s see what sort of contraband he was sending to England,’ suggested Biggles, cutting open the small parcel that had been handed to him. ‘Cigarettes,’ he muttered, looking at the contents.

  Marcel sniffed them. ‘Marijuana! Enough to dope a fair-sized community. I wonder who they were intended for.’

  ‘I think I know,’ answered Biggles. ‘I’ll take them with me, if you don’t mind, and confirm it. I’ll drop you at Le Bourget on the way. It’s time a doctor had a look at your face. You had a close shave that time.’

  ‘Pst. A scratch,’ said Marcel, as he got into the machine.

  There were three people, apart from Air Commodore Raymond, chief of the Air Police, in his headquarters office at Scotland Yard. They were Biggles, senior operational pilot, Air Constable ‘Ginger’ Hebblethwaite, and Colonel Dawson, a staff security officer of the United States Air Force in Britain. The Air Commodore was speaking to the American.

  ‘I’ve called you in because I think you should know about this,’ he said. ‘If my senior pilot’s suspicions are correct I shall need your co-operation. Briefly, the story is this. Bigglesworth here, working with the French representative of the International Police Commission, has uncovered an illicit air
shuttle service between this country and France. Until we stepped in it was being run by two Americans. There must be others in it. It may have been going on for some time. We don’t know. But we’re on the way to putting an end to the traffic.’

  ‘What was the racket?’ asked the American officer.

  ‘Spurious dollar bills were going from this country to France, by air. The pilot of the aircraft was bringing back cigarettes. Here is a sample of them.’ The Air Commodore indicated a box of cigarettes that lay on his desk.

  The security officer selected a cigarette and examined it. ‘There doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with this,’ he observed. ‘It’s a common enough brand.’

  ‘The brand may be common but the dope that has been put in them is not, thank goodness,’ returned the Air Commodore, grimly. ‘It’s marijuana. You don’t need me to tell you what effect it has on the people who smoke the stuff. These particular cigarettes are faked, of course. I mean, they were never made by the people whose trade mark is on them, for which reason, aside from any other, they could do the firm a great deal of harm.’

  ‘Sure. Do you know the name of the operator on this side of the Channel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘American?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Civilian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then go ahead and pick him up. The United States government will thank you. I’m only concerned with the army, not civilians.’

  ‘That brings us to the reason why I asked you to come here,’ averred the Air Commodore. ‘The man importing these coffin nails may be a civilian, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that his customers are.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘We know for certain that the operator, the importer of this stuff, is working round American airfields in this country, which suggests that his customers are United States military personnel. It’s only a suggestion, mind you! Have you noticed any unusual behaviour among your pilots or air crews?’

  The American stared at the Air Commodore, a curious expression dawning in his eyes. ‘My God!’ he breathed. ‘I wonder if that’s the answer.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Some of our boys have been doing the craziest things lately — low flying and lunatic stunting — with the result that we’ve had an ugly crop of crack-ups. There’s also been a lot of rowdyism, fighting, and so on, for no reason that we’ve been able to discover. Of course, we know that with nothing much to do fellers are liable to get browned off, but even so, we’ve been a bit puzzled to account for what’s been going on.’

  ‘Well, if your men have discovered a cure for boredom in marijuana that might well be the answer to your problem. You know it reacts.’

  ‘Sure. The stuff has the reputation of eliminating fear, which is why it was used by professional killers in our days of gang warfare. The stuff was introduced from Mexico. We suspected that something was wrong, and as you say, this may be the answer. What are you going to do about it? I can’t check every carton of cigarettes to see if they’re right or phoney. That of course was the object in putting the stuff in one of our most common brands.’

  ‘Until we have actual proof that your fellows are involved I think you’d better leave this in our hands,’ said the Air Commodore, thoughtfully. ‘Not a word to anyone except perhaps station commanders, who had better know in case there’s trouble.’

  ‘Okay, if you say so,’ agreed the American. ‘This is your country. I’ll get along. Thanks for giving me the tip.’

  After the Colonel had gone the Air Commodore looked at Biggles. ‘Well, what’s the next move?’

  ‘We’ve got to catch this dope merchant red-handed,’ answered Biggles. ‘I imagine he’ll still be hanging around the Cliverton Flying Club waiting for Ginger to come back to collect his fee — and hand over the cigarettes. We could pick him up, there and then, but we still wouldn’t know for certain where the stuff has been going, or where the phoney dollar bills are coming from.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  Biggles considered the matter for a moment. ‘The best plan, I think, is to fill this box with ordinary cigarettes. The box itself will smell enough of marijuana to prevent any suspicion of a switch. Ginger can go to Cliverton, find his man and hand the box over, explaining the delay by saying he had engine trouble. I’ll be there, but I’d like two of Inspector Gaskin’s professional sleuths on hand to do any shadowing that may have to be done. As soon as we know where the dope is going I’ll step in and pick up this dope pedlar.’

  ‘All right. I’ll leave it to you.’

  When, later in the day, Ginger landed his Auster on the Cliverton aerodrome, Biggles was already there, in the clubhouse, talking to the bar steward, an ex-R.A.F. man whom he had known in the Service. At that hour there were only a few people in the lounge. One, an American by his drawl, who seemed to be on familiar terms with everyone, was standing drinks.

  ‘Who’s the gent with the natty neckwear?’ Biggles asked the steward, softly.

  ‘American named Caulder, sir. He’s often here.’

  ‘How did he get in? Is he a member of the club?’

  ‘Some of the pilots at the camp are honorary members. One brought this chap in one evening and he’s been drifting in ever since. The secretary doesn’t think much of him but doesn’t like to do anything about it for fear of upsetting the camp.’

  Caulder walked suddenly to the window and Biggles knew why. Ginger had landed and was taxiing in. Caulder went out. Biggles followed, and took up a position from which he could hear the conversation when they met.

  ‘So you got it,’ said Caulder eagerly. ‘Nice work. I was getting worried about you.’

  ‘Had to drop in at Lympne with a sticky valve,’ answered Ginger casually, handing over the package he carried.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ said Caulder, and turned away.

  ‘Just a minute,’ called Ginger. ‘What about — what you promised me?’

  ‘Sorry. I haven’t got it on me right now.’

  ‘What’s the idea. Is this a double-cross?’

  ‘What if it was?’

  ‘I could tell the police—’

  Caulder laughed harshly. ‘And put yourself in the pen? Think it over, brother.’ He walked to a sports car and drove off. Another car followed.

  ‘That cheap crook,’ said Ginger disgustedly, when he joined Biggles.

  Biggles smiled. ‘Don’t worry. His game’s about played out. Let’s go in and have some tea.’

  Just after six the car that had followed Caulder returned and Biggles joined the plain-clothes man who had driven it. Said the driver, a policeman: ‘He’s in the village, in the bar of the Black Horse, selling gaspers to American flyers at five dollars a time. My mate is watching him.’

  ‘Capital. Ring the Camp Commandant and ask him to hurry to the Black Horse. I’ll borrow your car.’

  For a moment, as they entered the village inn, Ginger thought Biggles’ plan had miscarried. Voices were raised in anger. Cigarettes lay on the floor. Caulder, looking agitated, for he was being threatened, was protesting.

  ‘Looks as if the boys object to paying five bucks for ordinary tobacco,’ Biggles told Ginger quietly.

  For a few minutes, until they heard the skid of tyres outside, they watched the scene. Then Biggles walked up to the dope pedlar. ‘I’m a police officer,’ he announced, ‘and—’ the rest was lost in the hubbub as a general rush was made for the door. It died abruptly to silence as the U.S. Station Commandant, with military police behind him, blocked the way.

  ‘Take it easy,’ ordered the officer, crisply. His eyes went round the room, taking in the scene. They came to rest on Caulder. Recognition dawned. He made a gesture to his escort and pointed. ‘Arrest that man!’ he barked.

  Biggles introduced himself. ‘You know what this is all about, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I was told on the phone this morning by our Security Headquarters.’

  ‘You seemed to know that man in civ
vies who calls himself Caulder.’

  ‘I’d say I do,’ came back the Commandant curtly. ‘He deserted from my squadron when we were with the occupation forces in Germany.’

  Biggles smiled faintly. ‘That,’ he said evenly, ‘shouldn’t make the next few years any easier for him.’

  [Back to Contents]

  MURDER BY THIRST

  Biggles looked up from his desk as a Scotland Yard messenger entered the Air Police office and announced that ‘two young people’ wished to see him.

  ‘What do they want to see me about?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘They say they’d rather tell you personally.’

  ‘All right. Show them in.’

  The two young people entered and the messenger retired. One was a tall fair boy of perhaps seventeen; the other, a girl, somewhat younger.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ inquired Biggles.

  The boy answered, a trifle nervously. ‘Are you the famous Biggles?’

  Biggles smiled faintly. ‘Well, let’s say I’m Biggles, anyway. Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s John Murray and this is Sally Dunn. I come from Kalgoorlie and Sally lives in Perth. We arrived from Australia by air a week ago to finish our studies at the London School of Music. There’s something we feel you ought to know about.’

  ‘Sit down and go ahead.’ Ginger pulled up two chairs.

  Sally nudged her companion. ‘You tell him,’ she prompted.

  John began. ‘About four months ago there arrived in Western Australia an Englishman, an elderly man, name of Mr Farlow. It seems he’d always had an ambition to go prospecting for gold, and now he’d retired from business and had some money he’d come to Australia for that purpose. People got to know about him through an advertisement he put in the newspaper. He knew nothing about the practical side of prospecting although he had some theories; and, of course, he didn’t know the country, so he was looking for a partner who did. The idea was, he’d pay all expenses and they’d share any profit.’

  ‘That was sensible of him, anyway.’

  ‘Yes. But he should have taken advice about the man he chose, for he couldn’t have found a worse one. It was a well-known bad character named Black Jack Barnes. I knew him by sight; so did Sally. He’d been in prison more than once. He was usually drunk and looking for a fight with someone — anyone.’