by W E Johns
“Quite,” agreed the Air-Commodore. “Go ahead. Let me know how you get on.”
Biggles got up. “If you don’t hear any more from me about it you’ll know I was barking up the wrong tree.” He went out and returned to his own office.
II
Actually, it was ten days before Biggles’ plan could be put into operation. The reason was unusual. When Ginger, acting on Biggles’ instruction, and posing as a civilian, rang up the air-line company to book a trip to Le Touquet he was told politely that no bookings could be accepted for the time being because the company’s machines were temporarily out of commission for their annual complete overhaul. If, however, he would leave his address he would be informed when the company was again in a position to accept bookings. Ginger gave his private address, and then turned to hear what the others, who were watching, had to say about this unexpected development.
“What do you make of that?” he inquired in a curious voice. “What sort of company is it that manages to have all its machines grounded at the same time?”
“A stinker, old boy, a stinker!” replied Bertie Lissie frankly.
“It’s a bit odd, to say the least of it,” opined Biggles, tapping a cigarette.
“There’s just a chance that it may be more economical to handle both machines together,” observed Algy thoughtfully.
“And have to turn down bookings?” exclaimed Ginger. “That doesn’t make sense to me. I’ve got a feeling that Air Mobility don’t want genuine clients. They’ll never ring me up. You watch it.”
“We’ll give them a chance,” decided Biggles.
Ginger’s opinion was shown to be at fault when, a few days later, the company did in fact send him a letter to say that it was now in a position to accept bookings; whereupon he rang up and booked a machine for ten o’clock the following morning.
“A week ago they didn’t want customers,” he murmured sarcastically. “Now they do. I’d like to know what’s happened in the meantime.”
“That, my lad, is what you’ve got to find out,” Biggles told him.
And so it came about that ten o’dock the following morning, after the customary formalities—which, incidentally, were observed to the letter—saw Ginger getting into the seat of a blue-and-silver monoplane. He cast a professional eye over the machine. It appeared to he in a well-kept condition, but it did not give him the impression of just having had a complete overhaul. However, that was only a matter of opinion. He had learned that Wing Commander Kellack was to fly the machine.
The pilot and his radio operator came out and took their places. The aircraft took off, headed south, and put its passenger down at his continental destination in nice time for lunch.
Ginger kept a watchful eye on the proceedings, but if anything unorthodox occurred he did not see it. The only thing about the trip which, from a professional standpoint, could be criticised was the height at which the machine crossed the Channel. It was never more than a few hundred feet up. This, in Ginger’s opinion, considering the single power-unit with which the machine was fitted, was too low for safety. Moreover, there seemed to be no reason for it. It was not as if visibility was poor and the pilot was one of those who liked to keep an eye on the “carpet”. Visibility, if not exactly good, was at least fair, and Ginger would have taken the machine up to a much higher altitude before crossing the water. As it was, he was far from comfortable, knowing that engine failure would inevitably land them in the “drink”. The fact that the machine climbed after crossing the French coast, when altitude was less important, made the pilot’s behaviour even more singular. But, of course, Wing-Commander Kellack was not to know that his passenger was also a professional pilot.
Ginger had arranged for the machine to wait for him, and take him home after he had conducted some imaginary business in the town. What in fact he did was watch the crew of the aircraft; but nothing they did could be regarded as in the slightest degree suspicious. They, like he, had to clear Customs; and there was certainly nothing lax about the way this was done by the French officials.
On the return trip the machine went straight up to five thousand feet and stayed there. This was normal. Why, wondered Ginger, had the pilot not done that on the way out? He returned to Biggles with a slight feeling of frustration, as if he had missed something.
“Well?” queried Biggles.
“Nothing happened,” reported Ginger, tossing his cap into a chair. “Not a thing.”
Biggles’ eyes twinkled. “What you mean is, nothing that you could see.”
“I was wide-awake all the time.” protested Ginger. “I didn’t relax for an instant.”
“Maybe,” conceded Biggles. “But there, you can’t see an awful lot from the inside of an aircraft.”
Ginger looked hard at Biggles’ face. “What are you getting at?” he demanded. “Are you telling me that something irregular did happen?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“I was watching.”
Ginger blinked. “You were watching?”
“That’s what I said. I was waffling along at a comfortable distance behind you.”
“You might have told me what you were going to do,” complained Ginger indignantly.
“In which case you would have twisted your neck round trying to see me, and Kellack might have wondered what you were goofing at,” answered Biggles smoothly. “Kellack’s no fool or he wouldn’t have been a winco in the R.A.F.”
“Okay. And just what did you see?” inquired Ginger, sitting down.
“I saw a small object drop off the machine.”
“Where?”
“The moment you crossed the French coast.”
“We crossed over that depressing area of sand-dunes just south of Boulogne.”
“Quite right. Did you happen to notice a little picnic party there? It consisted of a fellow and a girl. They had what looked like some packets of food spread out on a yellow rug.”
“Pah, a courting couple!” snorted Ginger. “We flew right over them.”
Biggles nodded. “They looked like a courting couple, admit. That, I suspect, was what they were intended to look like.”
“Go on.”
“Naturally, I sheered off. Had I stayed too close someone may have thought I was snooping. But it seemed to me that the couple in the dunes must have seen the thing fall off the machine, because they went for a short stroll which took them over the spot and one of them picked the thing up.”
“Then what?”
Biggles smiled faintly. “They collected their kit, wandered along to the road, where they had a car waiting, and drove off. It all looked so perfectly innocent. I said looked.”
“So it’s just an ordinary smuggling racket, after all,” muttered Ginger.
“Smuggling, certainly, in that Kellack took with him something that he didn’t want to declare to Customs. But I’m not so sure that it comes into the ordinary class.”
“What do you think Kellack dropped?”
Biggles shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I didn’t see him drop anything.”
“Of course you didn’t. With a passenger inside he wouldn’t be such a fool as to open a side window and toss something out. Even the most simple-minded passenger would think that was strange behaviour, and possibly report it. The thing seemed to drop off the bottom of the fuselage. It would be the easiest thing in the world for an experienced man like Kellack to fix a little bomb-rack which could be operated from the cockpit. Anyway, the object dropped was a very small one, and for that reason alone I think we’ve struck something unusual. There are other reasons, too, for thinking that. Why should these people be willing to operate only on special occasions? Ordinary contraband, like gold or currency, could be dropped at any time. Ten days ago Kellack was not willing to fly. Today he is. Why? Obviously, because today he had in his possession something he didn’t have ten days ago. That, at least, pretty well proves one thing. Kellack isn’t int
erested in commonplace charter work or he would have booked your flight when you first rang up. That tale about the machine being overhauled was an excuse to put you off.”
“So it boils down to this. These Mobility merchants are not what they pretend to be.”
“That’s the English of it.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“For the moment, exercise a little patience. Kellack has got away with it this time, and there’s nothing we can do about today’s affair. No doubt this little racket has been going on for some time, in which case, as there must be easy money hanging to it, you can be quite sure that it will continue. Nothing is so dangerous as success. The weakness of the average crook is, he doesn’t know when to stop. The next time Air Mobility pull their little trick should be the last. We’ll be waiting.”
“Where are you going to jump on them—at the airport?”
“No. It would be better to do it over the other side and grab them in the act.”
“That’ll mean bringing in the French police.”
“Why not? It’s as much their affair as ours. They’ll appreciate our willingness to share the show with them, and do as much for us another day. I’ll ring up Marcel Brissac at the Sûreté and we’ll set the trap together. It’ll be nice to see Marcel again, any way.”
“How will you know when Kellack has another little parcel to take over?”
“Now we know what goes on, a little organisation should iron out such minor difficulties,” said Biggles. “There’s nothing more we can do for the moment.”
“Why not?”
“Because the aircraft of Air Mobility limited are again out of commission.”
Ginger’s eyebrows went up. “How do you know?”
Biggles grinned. “I don’t know. I’m guessing. Let’s see if I’m right.” He reached for the telephone, put through the call, and inquired about a passage to the Continent on the following day. His smile broadened as he said, “Thank you,” and hung up. “Nothing doing,” he said, turning back to Ginger. “All machines are booked to capacity for the next few days.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Not a word of it. The fact is, Air Mobility are only mobile when they want to be; and that’s only when they have a packet to drop on the other side of the Channel. This is getting quite interesting. But let’s go and have a cup of tea.”
III
A week elapsed, and it was the following Monday before Biggles was ahle to secure a booking for the Continent on the Wednesday. On this arrangement his plans were made. This time Bertie would be the passenger. His job, apart from providing a reason for the flight, was merely to maintain contact with the machine. Algy was already at Gatton Airport, keeping an eye on things, in the role of an idle spectator. Biggles and Ginger were to go to France, meet Marcel, and take up a position in the sand-dunes to watch events. Upon what happened there would their own actions depend. It was there, Biggles thought, that the first arrests would be made.
On the Tuesday, therefore, Biggles and Ginger flew to Paris, where Marcel met them and a conference was held. They spent the evening together. The following morning, in Marcel’s car, they made an early start for the objective —the desolate sandhills that fringe the French coast in the region of Boulogne. Biggles had, of course, noted the exact spot where the charter machine had crossed the coast on the occasion when Ginger was the passenger. Near this, some time before the machine was due, they took up a comfortable position from where they could watch without being seen.
They had not long to wait before the first move by the other side was observed. A big car came crawling along the sea-road as if the occupants were admiring the landscape. It pulled in to the side, and came to a stop some four or five hundred yards away. A man, and a woman with a mop of fair hair, got out, the man carrying what appeared to be a picnic-basket, and the woman, over her arm, a yellow rug. It was, as Biggles remarked, all perfectly innocent and natural. The pair might have been holidaymakers intending to spend the day on the beach. Unhurriedly, arm in arm, they strolled into the dunes towards the sea. About midway between the road and the sea they looked about as if seeking a comfortable place to sit, and eventually chose a slight depression between some dunes which commanded a view of the sea. The place was not much more than a hundred yards from where the watchers were now lying flat in the coarse grass that occurred at intervals.
Here, in the most natural manner possible, the couple spread the rug. Having disposed themselves on it, they began to unpack the luncheon-basket. So casual and open was their behaviour that, as Marcel said, it would have been a very astute coastguard who saw anything suspicious in their actions. Indeed, so ordinary did the whole thing appear that had it not been for the yellow rug the watchers would have had good reason to think they were making a mistake. But the rug was significant. Ginger perceived that as a marker it would be even more conspicuous from the air than it was from the ground.
Biggles looked at his watch. “If the machine left on time it should be here any minute now,” he remarked.
Apparently the machine did leave on time, for almost at once a distant drone announced its approach; and presently it could be seen, flying very low, heading directly towards them.
Thereafter things moved swiftly.
The machine, flying level, raced low overhead, at a height of certainly not more than a hundred feet. As it did so a small object detached itself and hurtled down, to strike the soft sand within a score of paces of the picnic-party. The machine held straight on without deviating a yard from its course.
The picnickers made no great haste to investigate the object that had fallen, although they must have seen it. Not until the aircraft was almost out of earshot did the woman get up, and, after a good look round, stroll in the most casual manner imaginable towards the spot where the object had struck the earth.
Her attitude underwent a quick change, however, when there came a warning shout from her companion, and looking round she saw Biggles, Ginger and Marcel walking briskly towards her. She hesitated for a moment as if in indecision. There may have been something in the manner of those approaching that suggested that they, too, had seen the object fall. At all events, she ran forward, and, being nearer to the object, reached it first.
By this time Biggles and his companions were within a dozen yards. Marcel called on the woman to surrender. She snatched up what appeared to be a small canvas bag, and dashed back towards her companion, now on his feet.
Ginger sprinted after her, and was fast overtaking her when a curious thing happened. The woman snatched off her skirt and flung it at him. Ginger caught it, tossed it aside, and went off after his quarry, who, now in a pair of men’s shorts, made better time.
However, Ginger overtook her and made a grab. It so happened that his hand closed over her hair. It came away in one piece. Then, of course, he perceived the truth. The supposed female was a fake. “She” was, in fact, a man.
If the affair was taking on the character of a comedy, and there was more than a suggestion of it, drama was near. As they raced towards the car the exposed female flung the bag to his companion, and turned in a flash, automatic in hand. Ginger was probably never nearer to death than he was at that moment, for his own gun was in his pocket. He had had no occasion to produce it. The automatic spat twice. The first shot whistled past his face. The second grazed his upper arm, drawing blood. Then there was a shot behind him and his assailant crumpled on the sand. It transpired later that Marcel had fired over Ginger’s shoulder.
The second man, holding the bag in his left hand, was now well on his way to the car. And he did in fact reach it first. But before he could get the car going Biggles had run up and put a bullet through the tyre. Seeing that he now had to face three men with guns in their hands, the fugitive must have perceived that further resistance was futile. Anyway, with the fear of death on his face he put his hands up. That was the end of the affair as far as immediate action was concerned.
At Bigg
les’ request Marcel went off and brought his car to a point as near as the ground would permit. The wounded female impersonator, who was obviously in a bad way, was carried to it, and rushed to the hospital at Boulogne, where, it may now he said, he died a week later.
Not until his companion had been lodged in gaol were the contents of the bag examined. Then, in the Police Bureau, Biggles cut the cord that secured the mouth and discharged the contents on the table. There was dead silence for a moment as a cascade of glittering jewels poured out.
Biggles spoke first. “Inspector Hodson, of C. Branch, will be tickled pink when he sees this little lot,” he observed grimly.
Marcel requested enlightenment.
“From the published description, these are the jewels of the Countess of Bedlington,” said Biggles. “They were stolen from her London house a few days ago. This, apparently, is how they were to be got out of the country. And they’re not the first sparklers to come out this way, I’ll warrant. For the past twelve months Hodson has been tearing his hair trying to work out how the proceeds of a series of jewel robberies could disappear without trace. As a matter of detail I suggested to him that perhaps they were being flown out, but he was convinced that they were still in the country.”
“If the man we’ve got in gaol will talk, we may be able to find some more,” suggested Marcel hopefully.
“Let’s try him,” agreed Biggles.
“What about the aircraft?” put in Ginger.
‘We’ll take care of that when it gets back home,” answered Biggles.
The captured man turned out to be one of those cosmopolitan spiv types so many of whom make a precarious living by their wits in Paris. His name, real or assumed, was Igor Louensky. Like most of his kidney, now that he was caught he was not only “out”, but very much down in the mouth, and ready to blame everyone but himself for what had happened. The popular saying, “honour among thieves”, certainly did not apply in his case. Not only was he willing to talk, but he went out of his way to betray all his associates. As a result, the whole gang was soon in the net cast by the French police.
