Biggles of the Interpol

by W E Johns

  ‘Why did no one warn Mr Farlow that this fellow was a wrong-un?’

  ‘No one knew about it until too late. They’d gone. My father was angry about it. When word went round that Mr Farlow had been seen going off with Barnes in a jeep people said they should have been stopped. My father thought Barnes must have seen the advertisement, saw Mr Farlow, and persuaded him to keep quiet about the trip, knowing jolly well that someone would tip Mr Farlow off as to what sort of man he was. Anyway, they went off; and they never came back; which in one way was surprising because Black Jack was an experienced digger and knew the country well enough.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘After some weeks had passed without sign of them an air search was started. The jeep had been seen heading for the waterless country to the north-east and it couldn’t carry enough water to stay in the desert indefinitely. After some time a plane spotted it in the wild country south-west of the Musgrave Ranges. The pilot went down and found it bogged to the chassis in soft mud. The tanks were dry. Of Mr Farlow and Barnes there was no sign. They were never found.’

  ‘A search was made for them, I imagine?’

  ‘Yes. A police tracker was flown out but he reckoned the jeep had been abandoned for a month. There had been some wind, and sand had blown over any trail there might have been. There was a lot of talk, of course. How came the jeep to be so far out? How came an old hand like Barnes to get stuck? — and so on. But there was no proof of anything crooked and eventually the talk fizzled out. It was assumed that the two men had started to walk and had perished, as has happened more than once in that country. They were more than a hundred miles from the nearest water.’

  ‘Their bodies weren’t found?’

  ‘No, Barnes wasn’t found for a good reason. He’s here, in London.’

  Biggles sat up in his chair. ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘Certain. He boarded our plane at Darwin, togged up in new clothes. I said to Sally you know who that is, and she said yes, it’s Black Jack Barnes. When we saw his left hand we knew there was no mistake because he’d lost the two end fingers fusing a stick of dynamite to blast some rock.’

  ‘He came to London with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘A week. I wrote at once to my father; but as Barnes was in London, and we’d read about you, we decided to tell you.’

  Biggles’ eyes met those of the boy. ‘What’s your idea of what happened?’

  ‘We asked ourselves some questions. How did Barnes, who was always broke, get the money to come here? Again, why has he come to London?’

  ‘You think he may have found what he was looking for — gold?’

  ‘Yes. But that doesn’t quite add up to make sense. He wouldn’t be able to carry any quantity of ore, on foot, with food and water for at least a hundred miles across bad country. If he made a strike why didn’t he stake his claim and have it recorded in the ordinary way?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Because if he had people would have said, what about your partner? Where’s Mr Farlow? That might have been an awkward question to answer. I’d say it was because he didn’t want to answer it that he never came back to Kalgoorlie. Neither has Mr Farlow come back. His luggage has never been collected.’

  ‘In other words, you think Barnes may have murdered Farlow?’

  ‘He must have had a good reason for not recording his claim.’

  ‘Assuming he had one to record.’

  ‘If he didn’t make a strike how did he get the money to come to London? And why come here, anyway? It’s my guess that he struck something big; too big to handle alone; in which case he’d try to get one of the mining companies interested. He wouldn’t dare to do that in Australia, but here, where nobody knows him, he’d be safe.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘I see you’ve got this all worked out.’

  ‘Sally and I have talked of nothing else for a week. We think you should find Barnes and ask him what happened to your fellow countryman Farlow. If he’s dead, even if Barnes didn’t kill him he must know how and where he died.’

  ‘He’ll have the answer ready, no doubt.’

  ‘If he says Farlow died ask him where he buried the body. In Australia a man doesn’t leave his partner lying about for dingo meat.’

  ‘All right. Let’s leave it at that for the moment,’ said Biggles, rising. ‘You did right to report this. Give me a description of Barnes and let me have your addresses so that I can get in touch with you should it be necessary.’

  ‘I can show you a photo of Barnes,’ said John, surprisingly.

  Biggles’ eyebrows went up. ‘How did you get that?’

  ‘Sally had her camera in the plane. She took a snapshot of him when he was asleep. She wanted to send it home to prove he was on the plane.’

  ‘Pretty good,’ complimented Biggles. ‘That was clever of you.’

  After the young Australians had gone he turned to Ginger. ‘Buzz Inspector Gaskin on the intercom, and ask him if he’d oblige me by stepping up here for a minute.’

  Presently the burly criminal detective came. ‘What’s on your mind?’ he growled, tapping out his pipe in Biggles’ ash-tray.

  ‘I want you to do a little job for me, if you will. You’ve men to handle it. I haven’t, without wasting a lot of time. It’s quite simple. A week ago an Australian named Barnes arrived here by air. Here’s a photo of him. I want discreet inquiries made round the gold mining companies to find out if he has called on them and if so for what purpose. I’d start with the companies having interests in Australia. He’d be most likely to know their names.’

  ‘That shouldn’t take long,’ said the Inspector, putting the photograph in his notebook. ‘That all?’

  ‘For the moment, yes, thanks.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Gaskin departed, but was back the same evening. ‘Did you want to have a word with this feller Barnes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you’re too late. He’s on his way back, with a mining engineer and surveyor, in a plane belonging to the Antipodes Mining Corporation.’

  Biggles stared. ‘By thunder! He must have had a tale to tell to induce the company to move as fast as that, and spend what the trip will cost.’

  Gaskin drew on his pipe. ‘He showed them samples of quartz so stuffed with gold that if he’s telling the truth when he says he knows where there’s tons of it, there may be millions involved.’

  ‘That certainly lets in a broad beam of daylight,’ said Biggles softly. ‘Those kids were right. Thanks, Gaskin. When did this plane leave?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Fine. With luck we might still beat it to Australia. I’ll go and have a word with the Air Commodore. I think he’ll agree that a run to Australia is indicated.’

  A week later found the Air Police Wellington heading out over the lonely wastelands that comprise so much of Western Australia. Sitting beside Biggles in the cockpit, acting as guide, was the police sergeant who had been with the search party when the jeep was found. At police headquarters Biggles had repeated the story told by the two young Australians, revealed what he had learned subsequently, and this was the result. The journey out had been uneventful, without sign of the gold company’s aircraft. Stopping only for fuel Biggles thought, and hoped, that he had arrived first.

  He had of course discussed the affair at some length with the Australian police officials but had learned little more than he already knew. The jeep had been examined without yielding any clue as to what had happened. Farlow had not been found, alive or dead, although considering the nature of the country this surprised nobody.

  Biggles was hoping that the body of the amateur gold hunter might still be found, although, as he admitted freely to the sergeant, it was a forlorn hope; for if Barnes had in fact murdered his partner, and buried the body, it would be futile to search for it. There was still some doubt about the murder theory, the weak part being the motive; for if the pro
spectors had by a lucky chance ‘struck it rich’ there would have been no reason for Barnes to kill his companion, since there would have been ample wealth for both of them.

  One important factor in favour of the employment of an aircraft for the present purpose was the occurrence, as the sergeant had assured Biggles, of plenty of places where a landing could be made — at all events, in the open country where the jeep was found. The terrain was flat, mostly sand or stony desert and free from obstructions except those which could be seen, such as areas of spinifex or clumps of shrubby mulga. In general, the panorama, as it lay shimmering under the merciless sun, was one of inhospitable monotony. The superheated air was thin, and the aircraft rocked in the bumps.

  The sergeant indicated a ridge of blue hills that had crept up over the horizon. ‘Those are the Musgraves. We found the jeep in a drift just this side of them. As you see, there’s plenty of room to land if you want to.’

  ‘And there’s plenty of room for a man to get lost in,’ returned Biggles, grimly. ‘A man stranded here would, I imagine, head west?’

  ‘That’s the nearest way to water even though it’s a long way off.’

  ‘How long, here, could a man last without water?’

  ‘He wouldn’t get far. A couple of days in this blistering wilderness would about finish him. How long do you reckon to stay here?’

  ‘Until Barnes comes. I look at it like this. He found gold. That we know. He’ll come back. The place where he made the strike can’t be far from where the jeep was found, so if we sit down we should either see him or hear the aircraft when it arrives. This is the one place where, sooner or later, we can be sure of finding him.’

  ‘There’s the place where we found the jeep.’ The sergeant pointed out. ‘You can still see the mark where we hauled it out.’

  Biggles took the aircraft down nearly to ground level, circled twice, but did not land. Speaking over the intercom, he told the others, who were aft, to watch for anything like a body; and with that he started quartering in a westerly direction. This was continued for half an hour, when the sergeant said, in his opinion, Farlow couldn’t have got as far even if he had started in good shape.

  Biggles turned. ‘A man, knowing he was finished, wouldn’t just sit down on the open ground and die,’ he opined. ‘He’d look for cover of some sort if only to get out of the sun. The only shade I can see is that clump of mulga ahead. It might be worth spending a couple of minutes having a look at it.’

  The sergeant gave Biggles a curious look but said nothing.

  Biggles landed close to the trees, switched off, stepped down and lit a cigarette while the others joined him. He then led the way to the sun-scorched mulga and walked on into the deepest shade. Suddenly he stopped. ‘That, I fancy, is all that’s left of the man we’re looking for,’ he said quietly, pointing to some shrivelled, mummified remains lying against a stump.

  In the silence that followed the sergeant went on and for a minute or two was busy. ‘It’s him,’ he said briefly, rising. ‘I found this note in his pocket. Let’s see what he has to say.’ He unfolded a small piece of paper. As he read it his brow darkened. ‘So now we know,’ he said shortly, when he had finished. ‘He must have hoped that someone would find him, one day.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He says they found gold, a vein of quartz so rich that the metal was sticking out of it. On the way home to register their claims, Barnes, who was driving, by accident or design stuck the jeep in a sand drift. They were already short of water, but there was nothing else for it but to start walking. The first night out, Farlow says, while he was asleep, Barnes went off taking all the remaining water with him. He woke up to find himself alone. Knowing he hadn’t a hope of getting back he wrote this letter and crept into the only bit of shade to die.’

  Biggles dropped his cigarette end and put his heel on it. ‘I don’t know what the law is in this country but if Barnes took all the water knowing his partner must die of thirst, then he killed him just as surely as if he had put a bullet through his head.’

  ‘That’s how it looks to me, and what most people will say,’ agreed the sergeant in a hard voice. He raised a hand. ‘Hark! That’s a plane coming now. It can only be Barnes.’

  Standing in the fringe of the scrub they watched the machine pass overhead, watched it till the engines died and it circled down to land on the edge of the foothills of the mountain range.

  ‘Let’s go over,’ said the sergeant, crisply.

  There was no one with the aircraft as they landed beside it, the pilot apparently having gone with the others to see the claim, so they sat in the shade of a wing to wait. They waited for nearly two hours before Barnes and the others returned. There was a brief hesitation on the part of Barnes when he saw the sergeant’s uniform but he came on with the others, having no alternative.

  ‘Barnes,’ said the sergeant sternly, ‘I want a word with you.’

  ‘Mr Barnes is a lucky man,’ said one of the surveyors.

  ‘That’s what you think, and maybe what he thinks.’

  ‘He’s made a strike that will cause a sensation.’

  ‘It’ll cause a sensation all right,’ returned the sergeant, caustically. He faced the prospector squarely. ‘Where’s Mr Farlow?’

  ‘He died of snake-bite,’ lied Barnes glibly. ‘He would wander off by himself. I did what I could for him but it was no use.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I buried him, of course.’

  ‘Where?’

  Barnes made a vague sweep with an arm. ‘Over there. I couldn’t say exactly where.’

  ‘You needn’t try,’ sneered the sergeant. ‘We’ve found him. Before he died he wrote a letter, and the story it tells is a different one from yours. The court can decide which is the right one. You’re coming back with me.’

  Barnes’ dark eyes roamed the landscape as if he contemplated making a bolt for it. But all around, as he must have realized, lay the death to which he had condemned his partner. His hand moved towards his pocket, but it stopped when he found himself looking into the muzzle of Biggles’ gun.

  ‘Come on,’ cracked the sergeant. ‘You gentlemen had better get back to England and forget what’s happened here,’ he added, with a glance at the speechless surveyors. ‘I’m sorry if you’ve come a long way for nothing.’

  Handcuffs clicked on the prisoner’s wrists.

  ‘After we’ve dropped you off, sergeant, I think we’ll push along home, too,’ said Biggles. ‘Don’t forget to whom the credit for this is due. I’ll see them when I get back.’

  ‘I’ll remember,’ promised the sergeant.

  [Back to Contents]

  A MATTER OF DEDUCTION

  Biggles replaced the Air Police operations room telephone receiver, made a note on his pad, and walked over to the big wall maps of Western Europe.

  ‘That sounded like Marcel Brissac of the Sûreté,’ said Ginger.

  ‘It was,’ confirmed Biggles. ‘He wants us to go over. He has a mess on his hands, and I gather he feels there’s more to it than meets the eye. Ring the secretary of the Holmwood Flying Club and tell him one of his machines, Tiger Moth GB-XKZ, is down in France, in small pieces. It didn’t catch fire so the papers are there to identify it. Get particulars. Who was in the machine when it took off and at what time did it leave the ground.’

  ‘How many people were in it when it crashed?’

  ‘One body, in the front seat.’

  ‘You mean, dead?’

  ‘Very dead. Name, according to documents in the pockets, Dennis Crayford. Algy, check the list of licence holders for the name. Bertie, you might try the Air Force List. You may find him on Reserve. If so try to get his record from the Air Ministry. Say it’s urgent. You can tell them he’s been killed in a crash. I’ll be getting the Proctor out. No need for us all to go over. I’ll take Ginger with me in case I need a second pilot.’

  When Biggles came back a quarter of an hour later the information he had asked
for was there. Ginger reported first. The Tiger Moth named, the property of the Club, had been reported missing. It had been taken up by a Club member at 8.0 p.m. the previous evening. Name, Dennis Crayford. Purpose; a night-flying training flight. Crayford was an ex-Flight Lieutenant R.A.F., trying for his civilian ticket. He had nearly finished his course. The briefing had been a solo flight to Gatwick and back. ‘How on earth did he get to France in weather conditions that must have been near perfect?’ concluded Ginger.

  ‘Don’t waste time guessing. Maybe that’s what Marcel wants to know. Have you any news, Algy?’

  ‘No. He isn’t on the register of civil pilots.’

  ‘We know that now. He was after his ticket. How about you, Bertie?’

  ‘Dennis Adrian Crayford, aged twenty-nine. On Reserve. Three years an air gunner before getting his wings. Did three years as a single-seater fighter pilot in service squadrons before being transferred to Reserve for medical reasons.’

  ‘Good. Now we know where we are.’

  ‘But that’s fantastic,’ declared Ginger. ‘Not even a pupil on his first solo, much less an experienced pilot, could lose his way to that extent in good visibility. He must have seen the Channel.’

  ‘Of course he did. Quite obviously the pilot of that flying machine had no intention of going to Gatwick. The aircraft didn’t catch fire when it crashed because its tanks, with the exception of a little in gravity, were dry — so Marcel says. It looks as if the machine flew south as far as its fuel would take it and then crash-landed.’

  ‘Where actually did that happen?’

  ‘Not far from Provins, a small country market town on the main line south of Paris; which suggests that the pilot might have been following the railway when he ran out of juice. Marcel says if we follow the line we can’t miss seeing the crash at the bottom end of a big grass field on the right-hand side of the track. Let’s go. Take care of things till I get back, Algy. I shouldn’t be long.’