Biggles Of The Special Air Police

by W E Johns

  It began in Paris. Louensky had insisted that he did not know what was in the bag—which may or may not have been true. He admitted that he had done similar jobs before, but he was, he declared, just a messenger. His part was to sit on the sands, pick up a bag dropped by an aeroplane, and take it to the bar named the Two Pigeons, in Paris. There he was to hand it over to a man whom he described, known in the Underworld as Harry. He did not know his real name. Everyone knew Harry. Harry was, he thought, the big man of the racket.

  Without any difficulty, hoping no doubt to get a lighter sentence, Louensky was persuaded to complete his assignment. That is to say, he went on to Paris and handed over the bag as arranged. The police, in plain clothes, were also there, and Harry was arrested with the goods on him. A search of the luxurious apartment he maintained revealed the proceeds of several jewel raids, not only in Britain but on the Continent.

  With the French end “buttoned up” it did not take long to ascertain the part played by Air Mobility, Limited. With Inspector Hodson, Biggles went to Gatton Airport and interviewed the Managing Director, Wing-Commander Kellack, in his office. Seeing that the game was played out, Kellack made a clean breast of everything. He had, he said bitterly, behaved like a fool, an opinion with which Biggles agreed.

  It was the old story of bad companions. Air Mobility had started as a genuine air-transportation company, but things had gone badly, and the concern was pretty well on the rocks when, at an unfortunate moment, Kellack had met a man whom he had known just after the war when he was stationed at the French capital. This was Harry. Harry, then a black-market operator, had cashed a cheque for him at a time when this was unlawful. This act of folly had put him in the man’s power, a circumstance which Harry used to his advantage. In a word, under the threat of exposure, Harry had blackmailed the wretched Wing-Commander into working for him. This, of course, was the reason why Air Mobility had been kept on its feet. It must have suited Harry very well, always to have air transport available for his cross-Channel journeys. Kellack was given twelve months’ imprisonment to ponder his foolishness.

  As Biggles summed it all up in his report to the Air-Commodore, it became clear that Harry, an international rogue, was the evil genius behind more than one racket that had worried the police for a long time. He had made a considerable fortune out of black-market transactions, but when currency regulations were tightened up enough to make this unprofitable he had turned to more direct crime. Somehow he had made contact with the leading jewel-thieves, and relieved them of the difficult business of getting their hauls out of the countries in which they had been stolen. A French court saw to it that he was put where he could do no further mischief for a long time.

  Biggles struck the name, Air Mobility Limited, the company that always showed a profit, from his records, with the observation: “Wound up,” and the date.

  “Give a crook enough petrol,” he remarked sadly, “and sooner or later he’ll hit the deck.”

  [Back to Contents]

  THE CASE OF THE WHITE LION

  “I want you, if you will, to run out to West Africa and do a little job for me.” As he spoke, Air-Commodore Raymond, head of the Air Section at Scotland Yard, pushed his cigarette-case nearer to his operational chief, Air Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth.

  Biggles pulled forward a chair, seated himself and took a cigarette. “What’s the worry?” he inquired.

  “The worry,” answered the Air-Commodore, “is a white lion.”

  Biggles’ expression did not change. “Is that the name of a pub, or club or something?”

  “No. I’m talking about a real lion, the well-known tawny-tinted quadruped. Its colour in this case—according to report—is white. That is on the rare occasions when it has been seen in daylight. At night it is said to glow.”

  Biggles smiled faintly. “Sounds as if someone has been putting in overtime with a case of gin. Cut off the booze and Luminous Leo will disappear with the pink elephants, green snakes, and the more usual members of the alcoholic menagerie.”

  The Air-Commodore shook his head. “There’s more to it than that.”

  Biggles looked surprised. “You mean, you really believe there is an albino specimen of Felis leo?”

  “I didn’t say that, but there could be. After all, white specimens of nearly all animals and birds do occur. There have even been white blackbirds.”

  “But they didn’t glow in the dark,” asserted Biggles cynically.

  “At all events, whether this beast is there or not, it’s causing us a good deal of trouble.”

  “Is it a man-eater?”

  “We’ve no record of it ever hurting anyone.”

  “Then what’s the fuss about?”

  “Africans think nothing of ordinary lions, but they refuse to stay in the locality occupied by a white one.”

  “We can’t blame them for that.” Biggles tapped the ash off his cigarette. “You’re sure this yarn isn’t just native rumour?”

  “The white lion has been seen by at least two white men.”

  “They should have caught it. Any zoo would pay a lot of money for a lion with a milky mane.”

  “Perhaps they overlooked that possibility.” The Air Commodore smiled whimsically. “I’m offering you a chance. If you can catch the beast you can have it.”

  Biggles laughed. “Fair enough.”

  “I want that animal liquidated,” averred the Air-Commodore seriously.

  “You must have a good reason for that.”

  “I have. It has cost this country, so far, well over a million pounds. It has also upset the Government’s domestic policy to the extent that it may affect this country’s supply of meat.”

  Biggles’ eyes opened wide. “Suffering Icarus! How did the brute manage that?”

  “I can tell you in a few words,” stated the Air-Commodore. “As you know, this country eats more meat than it can produce, therefore we have to spend dollars buying it, or most of it, from South America. Certain people there, knowing that we are dependent on them, have pushed up the price of beef to a figure that we can’t afford. Some time ago, therefore, the Government decided it was time we produced our own beef.”

  “Quite right. I’d turn vegetarian rather than be blackmailed.”

  “The question was, where to raise the cattle. There are many places in the dominions and colonies where there is almost unlimited grazing, but unfortunately there are snags that make stock-breeding impracticable. Africa is a case in point. The grazing is there, but so are the diseases that kill the type of beef-bullocks we raise in this country. The local cattle, over a period of time, have become immune. If we could introduce that same immunity into our own cattle, all would be well. Scientists got to work, and some time ago they succeeded in producing the animal we required. I must tell you that these experiments, for political reasons, were kept quiet.”

  Biggles nodded. “Naturally.”

  “The first area selected for the mass production of our own beef was some extensive plains in the hinterland of Nigeria; a district called Nagoma. A road to it from the coast was put in hand. It was a big job, but according to the programme it was to be ready by the time the first beef was available for shipment. Meanwhile, we put down an airstrip at Nagoma and laid on an airlift. A bungalow was built to accommodate a white manager and three assistants. Stores were flown in, and the calves that were to form the nucleus of the new herd. Native labour was to be employed in rounding up the cattle. As there are several villages in the district we did not think there would be any difficulty about that. Nor was there. Everything was going fine when—”

  “The white lion ambled into the picture.”

  “Exactly. The brute fairly threw a spanner into the gears. Common or garden lions the natives didn’t mind, although as a matter of detail they are not common around Nagoma. But the ghastly ghost of one prowling the plains in the small hours was more than they could stand. The whole district promptly evacuated itself of its human population, faster than
if the devil himself had appeared on the scene. Nothing will induce the natives to go back. In a word, our scheme collapsed like a punctured football.”

  “What about the cattle?” queried Biggles.

  “They bolted, too. The herd has scattered far and wide.”

  “Does this mean that the scheme has been abandoned?”

  “Certainly not. But it’s held up for the time being, and will remain held up until we tear the hide off the unnatural beast to prove to the natives that they have nothing to be afraid of.”

  Biggles looked puzzled. “Tell me this. Why has nobody shot this brute?”

  “It never appears in daylight. That is to say, it has never been seen in daylight by any member of our staff who happened to be carrying a rifle.”

  “Did your manager try to track the animal?”

  “He and his assistants did their best, you may be sure. They hunted day and night, until they were worn out. It seems that this particular beast has an uncanny knack of avoiding trouble. That, of course, to the natives, simply confirms their belief that the creature isn’t flesh, blood and hair. Everything has been tried—traps, poison, and the rest—but the lion is still there; and while it is there the scheme will stand still.”

  Biggles stubbed his cigarette. “Who were the white men who saw the lion?”

  “Kirby, our manager, was one. That was early on. He was unarmed at the time.”

  “It didn’t attack him?”

  “No. He says he shouted at it and it made off.”

  “Who was the other man?”

  “A fellow named Periera. He’s a professional naturalist; collects insects, reptiles and small mammals for natural-history museums. He has his headquarters at some abandoned copper-workings a few miles from our bungalow. He was on friendly terms with our men. He joined Kirby in the hunt. Indeed, I gather he was just as keen as Kirby to bag the beast. No douht he would have got a lot of money for the skin. Apart from that, he complains that he can’t get labour now, either. On one occasion he fired at the lion from such close range that he says he doesn’t know how he missed it. The experience startled him. He hinted to Kirby that there might be something in what the natives were saying, after all—that the beast wasn’t natural. This story got out, too, and did nothing to help matters.”

  “What nationality is this chap?”

  “I don’t know; but he isn’t British. From his name he might be Spanish or Portuguese, or even an American of that ancestry.”

  “Is he still there?”

  “Presumably.”

  “What ahout Kirby and his assistants?”

  “They’ve come home to report. There was nothing they could do there. They say they are faced with an impossible task. Certainly there’s no point in their going back until the lion is shot, or caught. That’s why I suggested that you might like to go out and have a look at things.”

  “Why me? I should have thought it was more a job for a professional big-game hunter.”

  “I’d like you to have a shot at it first, for several reasons. In the first place, with aircraft available, you’re highly mobile. Then there is the question of security. The Government doesn’t want this story to get out or we should be the laughing-stock of the rest of the world. You and your fellows are experts in operating aircraft on terrain where there are no servicing facilities. Last, but not least, you’re not likely to be scared by an apparition.”

  Biggles smiled. “Thank you, sir. Very well. This promises to be interesting. I’ve seen most wild beasts, but a white lion is a new one on me.”

  “You don’t want to speak to Kirby?”

  “No. I don’t think there is much he can tell us after what you have said. It would be better if no one knew we were on our way.”

  “As you wish. You can take the docket. You’ll find everything in it, from maps of the district to the key of the manager’s bungalow. You’ll stay there, I imagine. You’ll find it comfortable. Everything has been laid on.”

  Biggles picked up the manila packet that held the particulars of the case. “Expect us back when you see us,” he said. “I’ll have the hide off this ignoble King of Beasts—or he’ll have mine.”

  II

  Four days later an air-police Proctor aircraft was being unloaded on the somewhat overgrown airstrip near to which the manager’s bungalow overlooked a typical African landscape. For the most part it comprised a vast expanse of sun-dried grass dotted with smallish, flat-topped trees, standing alone or in little groups. Occasional patches of scrub that had been cut or burnt off were beginning to sprout again. Where the ground fell away into a depression reeds flourished round a pool of stagnant water. Near it, a few head of cattle, apparently the remnants of the herd, were grazing.

  The bungalow, raised on piers two or three feet above the ground, was a simple timber-framed building that had been transported in sections to provide temporary accommodation. A verandah ran the whole length of the front. There were some outbuildings in the rear. A hundred yards distant stood a native village, a collection of cone-shaped reed-and-wattle huts built roughly in the form of a circle. A complete absence of life, or smoke, indicated that it was deserted.

  The only human beings in sight were the four men unloading the Proctor and carrying the stores and equipment it had brought into the bungalow. They were Biggles himself, with air-constable Ginger Hepplethwaite, Bertie Lissie and Algy Lacey. The equipment included rifles and guns with their appropriate cartridges. When everything was out of the machine Biggles taxied it to the middle of the village, where, as he told the others, it would be out of the way and reasonably safe.

  This done he returned to the hungalow, where Ginger was boiling water on a Primus-stove for coffee.

  “Any sign of the lion?” asked Ginger.

  “No,” answered Biggles. “I didn’t expect to find him waiting for us. Judging from the way those cattle are standing at the pool I don’t think he can have heen this way lately. He may show up, though, when he sees we’re here.”

  Algy looked up from a case he was opening. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “Well, now that everyone has been scared away there’s no particular reason for the lion to come in this direction, is there?” There was a curious inflection in Biggles’ voice.

  “Am I to take it from that remark that you really believe in this fantastic beast?” asked Algy.

  “Oh, yes. There’s a lion here. There was never any doubt in my mind about that,” replied Biggles, dropping into the late manager’s easy chair. “It wasn’t mere hearsay that caused this place to be evacuated. Kirby certainly saw something, and he’s prepared to swear it was not only a lion, but a white lion. It must have looked like a lion, anyway. Since it’s put him out of a good job he would be the last man to make up such a tale. We’re here to find out just what he did see.”

  “But you don’t really think it’s a lion?” challenged Ginger.

  “I’m keeping an open mind about it,” returned Biggles. “It’s too late to do anything today. Tomorrow we’ll have a look round. Lions have to eat. These imported calves must be easy prey. If there’s a lion in the district we may reasonably expect to find where he made a kill. Certainly the larger bones would be left. To my mind, the queerest part of Kirhy’s story is that neither he nor his assistants ever found a kill. There’s something very odd about that.”

  “The natives saw nothing remarkable in it,” averred Ginger. “It supported their arguments that the beast was a ghost, and ghosts, good, honest, respectable ghosts, don’t eat.”

  “All right. It’ll be interesting to see how this ghost behaves when he get a four-fifty Express bullet in his ribs.”

  Bertie stepped in. “But look here, old boy, even if we find a kill it wouldn’t follow that the beastly lion that did it was white.”

  “Admittedly,” conceded Biggles. “But it will be something to work on. We’ve nothing else. If we find a kill we’ll watch it. Most beasts of prey return to a kill—if there’s anything le
ft over from the previous meal.”

  The sun was well down by the time the stores had been housed and the bungalow made shipshape. Two rifles and two ten-bore guns, with ammunition beside them, lay ready for action on a side-table. After supper, deck-chairs were taken out on to the verandah, and while watch was kept on the landscape the mission was discussed in all its aspects. As darkness closed in the cattle left the water-hole and walked toward some higher ground. They moved without haste, but with an alert watchfulness, sometimes stopping to gaze fixedly in one direction or another.

  “Those beasts are nervous,” declared Algy. “They behave as though they know this is the dangerous time. I’d say there are lions about, even if the white one is not on the job.”

  As if to confirm his words, from out of the misty shadows, a long way off, came the sound that is like no other—the vibrant roar of a lion.

  For a few seconds no one spoke. All eyes were turned in the direction from which the sound had come. Then Biggles said: “That naturalist fellow, Periera, lives somewhere over there. That lion can’t be far away from him.”

  “How about walking over and calling on him?” suggested Bertie.

  “We’ll do that tomorrow,” answered Biggles. “There’s no particular hurry, and I see no point in wandering about in the dark looking for the place. I’d rather get my bearings in daylight. Which reminds me, I haven’t made up the log-books. They’re in the machine. I don’t want to waste time in the morning, so I’ll go and fetch them.”

  “I’ll fetch them for you,” offered Ginger.

  “Thanks. Take a torch with you.”

  “You bet I will.”

  Ginger set off with no more concern than if he had been going on an errand in a city street; but by the time he had reached the silent, deserted kraal, he was beginning to look hard at the shadows. It was darker than he had thought. For the first time he began to understand what it would be like to have a white lion prowling about at night. No wonder the natives had departed. He was glad to have his torch. Losing no time he took the log-books from their usual place and hastened back towards the bungalow. As he emerged from the village a curious thing happened. Far away across the lonely plain he saw a spark of light. But even as he stopped and stared at it, it disappeared. He walked on, watching the direction, but it did not reappear. He entered the house somewhat hurriedly.