40 Biggles Works It Out

by Captain W E Johns

  "Watch what?" inquired Biggles curiously.

  "The beast that is called the ibex. But this man loves the ibex." Marcel spoke as if he could hardly believe this himself.

  Biggles looked incredulous.

  "Why a man should love the ibex is a thing not easy to understand," admitted Marcel, with another shrug. "But there, men love different things. This one loved the ibex. Why he loved the ibex—"

  "Never mind why he loved the ibex," interposed Biggles. "Let's agree that he did love them. What about it? Go ahead."

  Marcel went on. "As Monsieur Bourdau grows old he also grows sad, because he sees that the ibex get less each year. They die because the water dries up. He has an idea. He is rich. The ibex shall be saved. To a valley in the mountains he brings engineers with machines that dig deep in the earth for water. The water rises in the pipe. It fills a trough of stone. The ibex find the trough. They drink. Monsieur Bourdau watches this. He may be mad, but he is happy, because the ibex are saved. Where the earth becomes wet he plants grass and little trees. So is born an oasis. It gets bigger. Monsieur Bourdau builds a house there, a big house for himself and his friends, so that they can watch the ibex. It is a sanct . . . sanct—"

  "Sanctuary."

  "C'est ca. That is it. Monsieur Bourdau is content. He lives at El Asile—that is what he names the oasis—until he dies."

  "Then what?"

  Marcel raised his hands in an expressive gesture. "That is all. The ibex drink, but there is no one to watch. Then one day a holy man comes to the French government and says someone should be in the desert to see that the water flows so that the ibex may drink.

  He will go, and with some friends make a religious house for the memory of the good Bourdau. So they go. Everyone is

  happy."

  "Including the ibex," murmured Biggles sarcastically.

  "Tell me, Marcel. Where did you collect this fantastic story?"

  "From the offices of the Administration in Algiers. The story is, without doubt, true."

  Biggles looked interested. "Do these ibex watchers, these White Prophets, stay out in the desert all the time?" "But yes."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I speak to a pilot of Air France who one day sees smoke, from their kitchen perhaps."

  "Do these men ever come back to civilization?" "If they do no one sees them."

  "What do they live on?"

  "Who cares?"

  "They do, I'll warrant. Even holy men have to eat. They'd soon get tired of sharing the grass with the ibex. If my memory is correct the Ahaggar Mountains are the best part of a thousand miles from anywhere, and that's a long walk every time you want a loaf of bread."

  "That is true," agreed Marcel, as if this aspect had not occurred to him.

  "How many of these White Prophets are there?"

  "I do not think the number is known, but perhaps several."

  "It seems to be infectious, this ibex watching."

  Marcel looked pained. "You do not believe this?"

  "I can't believe that these fellows are there merely to watch an animal quench its thirst.

  They could see that at the zoo. Monsieur Bourdau was genuine, no doubt; but an ibex watcher is something that might occur once in a lifetime. Yet here, apparently, we have a party of them, all content to live alone in the middle of a million square miles of sand, for the pleasure of watching a fool animal wet its whiskers. Are all these men Frenchmen?"

  "No one seems to know who they are."

  "I'm surprised your Administration hasn't troubled to find out."

  "They would think, as anyone would think, what mischief could men do in such a place?"

  "That may be the very reason why they chose to go there," said Biggles slowly.

  "Shall I fly out and speak to them?" suggested Marcel. "I could ask them if a strange aeroplane sometimes passes that way."

  "No, I don't think I'd do that," answered Biggles quickly.

  "I might annoy the ibex, you think?"

  "You might annoy the men who sit there watching them drink."

  For a moment Marcel didn't get it. Then understanding dawned in his eyes. "You think these persons have another business at El Asile?"

  "Their purpose there may be perfectly innocent, but I'm willing to risk a small bet that they are not there just to watch a herd of ibex stick their noses in a trough. I'll tell you what to do, Marcel. First you go to Paris and make discreet inquiries about these White Prophets. Find out if anyone knows anything about them. Then fly out to El Asile, very high, and take a photograph of the place. From that we may get a clue as to what these naturalists are doing. Fly straight over, so that they will not suspect that your interest is in them. Bring the photograph here, and we'll study it together. It may tell us nothing, but we've got to start our hunting somewhere."

  "Bon. That is easy," declared Marcel reaching for his cap. "When I have done this I come back."

  "That's the idea," confirmed Biggles.

  With a cheerful wave Marcel departed.

  Biggles turned to the others. "There's no need for us to do nothing while we're waiting for him to come back," he said. "Algy, how would you like a few days on the Riviera?

  You can take Bettie with you for company."

  "What's the drill?"

  "The drill is, you take a room at the Hotel de Paris, in Monte Carlo, and keep your eyes open for a fellow in a greenish sports jacket minus a button off his cuff. You can take the button we found with you, to refresh your memory. Watch the restaurant. He's probably eaten

  there once, and may do so again. There's also a chance that he picks his teeth. That isn't much to go on, I know, but we may as well make the most of what clues we have. You may spot this fellow Canton, who fiddles with a scar on his head. According to the people in Australia he's about thirty-five, thin, dark, with a little black moustache. He's a pilot, so one of you might keep an eye on the nearest airport, at Nice. He may use it.

  Bertie has all the gen about these things. You can fly down in one of the Austers if you like, so you'll have to land at Nice, anyway."

  "Okay," agreed Algy. "We'll have some decent bathing if nothing else. Come on, Bertie."

  "I'll be here if you want to get in touch with me about anything," Biggles told them, and then turned to Flight Sergeant Smyth, who was standing in the doorway, obviously waiting to speak. "Yes, Flight Sergeant, what is it?" he inquired crisply.

  There was a curious expression on Smyth's face when he answered. "Well, sir, I really came to speak to you about some more spares, but I couldn't help hearing what you said about a man named Canton."

  "What about him?"

  "There was a man of that name hanging about here yesterday. He was a thin, dark fellow, with a bit of a black moustache."

  Biggles started. "What! What did he want? You must have spoken to him to get his name?"

  "I asked him what he wanted. He said he was a reporter from the Daily Mail. He'd been detailed to do a story on the Air Police and wanted some information. He showed me his card. That's how I knew his name."

  Biggles stared. "Well, stiffen the crows!" he breathed. "Canton—still playing newspaper reporter. What did you tell him?"

  "I told him we were under orders not to talk to the Press."

  Biggles looked worried. "How long was this fellow here?"

  "I don't know, sir. I found him wandering about talking to some of the boys, or trying to.

  I told him to push off. It seems he was asking for you, personally, but was told you didn't see anyone. He said was it right you were just back from Australia?"

  Biggles looked at the others in turn. "Can you beat that for sheer brass face?" he muttered. He turned back to the Flight Sergeant. "What became of this chap at the finish?

  "

  "He went off."

  "How—was he walking, motoring, flying . . .?" "I didn't notice, sir. It didn't seem important."

  "Hm. All right, Flight Sergeant. I'll speak to you about the spares present
ly. Tell the boys on no account to talk to strangers. If you see any about let me know."

  "Very good, sir." The Flight Sergeant started to move off.

  Biggles called him back. "Just a minute," he said, a hint of anxiety in his voice. "This fellow could have been here some time?"

  "Yes, sir. I didn't see him arrive. I was busy on a job in the hangar."

  "I see." Biggles spoke slowly and thoughtfully. "In that case it might be a good thing if you made a thorough inspection of any machines that were standing outside. This chap Canton may have got up to some monkey business, apart from asking questions. Start with J-4578. Mr. Lacey will be using it presently."

  "Very good, sir." The Flight Sergeant strode away.

  Biggles turned again to the others, who were still standing there. "This is a fast one I did not expect," he confessed, and then smiled ruefully. "While we were looking for the enemy he was right here on our doorstep, playing cat and mouse. If he found out that I'd been to Australia he'd know why. Well, well. We shall have to watch how we go with this gang. As I said before, at least one of them has brains—and uses them."

  "Do you really think they might try to sabotage our machines?" asked Algy.

  "I'd put nothing past them," answered Biggles. "Murder is nothing to them; witness the way they shot up the gold convoy. Sabotage would be less than nothing if it suited their purpose. And, after all, that might be the easiest way to put us out of business. It was the first thought that came into my head when Smyth said this fellow Canton had been here.

  But you had better be getting along if you want to make Nice in daylight."

  Algy and Bertie picked up the emergency valises containing their small kit, kept packed for instant use, and departed.

  Biggles settled down at his desk,

  Ten minutes later the door opened and Algy reappeared. His face was pale. "Come and take a look at this," he invited, in a tense voice.

  Without a word Biggles followed him to the Auster. Ginger went with them.

  "What do you make of that?" asked Algy, pointing. "We were just going to start up when Smyth spotted it."

  Following the direction indicated, Ginger saw a sort of swelling on the rear exhaust pipe, four of which projected below the engine cowling. Moving nearer, he observed that something had been bound on the pipe with black adhesive tape, so that in the ordinary way it would not have been noticed.

  Biggles took out his penknife and opened the small blade. "Stand well back everyone,"

  he ordered curtly. Then, slowly and with infinite care, he raised the end of the tape and unwound it. A metal tube came into view. Very, very carefully, in dead silence, he removed it, and with a deep breath, stepped back. "I don't know what this is," he said in a hard voice. "But I can guess. It looks like one of those small gelignite demolition bombs that were issued to Commandos in the war. The heat of the exhaust, when the engine was started, would, I imagine, have been enough to do all that was necessary. There would have been a loud bang. The aircraft would have disintegrated—and we should never have known why. I'll get the experts at the Yard to examine this." He turned to Flight Sergeant Smyth. "Make a thorough examination of the other machines," he ordered. "Be careful, and do the job properly." He looked at the others. "See what I mean about watching our step? The enemy knows we're on the job. He's on the job, too. All right. The machine is probably okay now."

  "I hope you're right, old boy," said Bertie, with unusual earnestness.

  VI

  A MAN MINUS A BUTTON

  ALGY stood on the famous terrace at Monte Carlo, in the Principality of Monaco, in the South of France, and regarded the Mediterranean Sea with something like despondency.

  He and Bertie had been on the celebrated Blue Coast for five days, and as far as results were concerned they might as well have stayed at home. All they had gained was a change of climate, and this, admittedly, was for the better, as the weather could with truth be described as perfect. Contact with Biggles, informing him of failure, had merely brought the laconic reply "stick to it".

  Algy had, of course, realized from the outset that their chances of success were slim. He knew that Biggles knew that, too, when he had detailed him for the job. To find a man minus a cuff button had seemed a forlorn hope even from a distance; on the spot it seemed a complete waste of time. One man in every six appeared to wear a jacket that could, by stretching the term, be described as green; and the buttons on every one, as far as could be ascertained, were complete.

  Bertie had gone to the airport at Nice to have a look round. They had taken it in turns to go. The luck there had been no better than in Monaco.

  The day was hot, the sort of day that encouraged thirst, so although he had just had his lunch Algy strolled over to the bar of the Café de Paris, where he could drink an iced lemon squash in the shade. There was only one other customer there. Paying no attention to him, he ordered his drink, took a cigarette from his case, flicked his lighter and lit the cigarette. A voice at his elbow said: "Merci, monsieur," and turning, he saw that his companion was holding an unlighted cigarette. Algy held out the lighter. He still paid no attention—that is. until the man's hand went to his lips, which brought his sleeve into view. Algy's eyes went to the usual row of buttons on the cuff. As he had been looking at cuffs for the past five days this was largely automatic. One, the bottom one, was missing.

  The two that remained were similar, if not identical, to the one he had in his pocket. Only the jacket was not so much green as grey, which was probably why it had not previously been investigated; for Algy, now that he really looked at his companion, perceived that he had seen him two or three times before, usually going in or coming out of the casino.

  To describe Algy's emotions as he returned the lighter to his pocket would not be easy.

  The dominant one was astonishment, which was so acute as to induce a sensation of unreality. Now that he had practically given up looking for a man minus a cuff button here was one standing beside him drinking a whisky-and-soda. Could it be possible, he wondered, that this man had recently been to Australia on a criminal enterprise? No, he decided, it could not. The thing was too fantastic. Yet why not? Someone had certainly been to Australia, and it might as well be this man as any other. Anyhow, as he had found precisely what he had travelled to Monte Carlo to find, he might as well see the thing through. Thus whirled Algy's thoughts, as out of the corners of his eyes he had a good look at the man who had lost a button.

  That he was not British, or French, had been evident from his accent when he spoke. The jacket, and the grey flannel trousers he wore with it, had a continental cut. Algy decided that he might be German, Austrian, or a Czech. It was not easy to guess in an international resort like Monte Carlo, where in a short walk it is possible to see every nationality on earth. His age he put at about forty. For the rest he was tall, fair, and good-looking in a heavy sort of way.

  Algy was trying to think of a reasonable excuse to open a conversation when the man finished his drink and walked away. Following, Algy noticed that he walked with a slight limp. Was this another link with Australia? He recalled that the black trackers had declared that one of the bandits walked with a limp. They had all, it was asserted, worn shoes with crepe rubber soles. This man wore white buckskin shoes which appeared to have crepe soles. He walked across the road and boarded the little bus which plies between the Place Casino and the bathing-beach, a trifle more than a mile distant. He took a place in the front. Algy also boarded the bus and found a seat in the rear. In a few minutes the vehicle, full to capacity, proceeded to its destination.

  On reaching it the man went to the little office, took a ticket, presented it to the woman in charge of the cabins, and was given in return a costume, a towel, and a key from the board on which the cabin keys hung in numbered rows. Algy did the same thing, and was in consequence given a cabin next in line with the one taken by the man he was following, the numbers being twenty and twenty-one respectively. Actually, he was still not clea
r as to what he was going to do. He had made no plan. So far his intention was simply to keep the man under observation.

  The cabins at Monte Carlo bathing-beach are not the flimsy wooden erections one so often finds at home. They are permanent buildings, like a row of bungalow cottages, the doors placed in pairs with a verandah to each pair. Each is furnished like a bathroom.

  This Algy

  discovered when, after his man had entered his cabin, he let himself into his own. He watched, and presently had the satisfaction of seeing the man emerge ready for the water. He watched him lock his door, limp along and hang the key on the board, run down to the sea and strike out for the big raft which is moored about two hundred yards from the beach.

  Algy did some quick thinking. Then he moved fast. He, too, got into his costume and took his key to the board. But instead of leaving his key he lifted the key of number twenty. There was no risk in this, because the woman in charge was busy hanging out some towels to dry. With the key in his hand he went back to the cabins. A glance revealed that the man was still swimming towards the raft, which he had nearly reached, and towards which, naturally, he was looking. In a moment Algy had unlocked the door of number twenty, gone in and closed it behind him.

  The grey jacket hung on a hook. He explored the pockets. Only the breast pocket yielded anything of interest. There were two letters. One was a bill from a tailor in Hamburg, and the other a receipt from an hotel in Berlin. Each envelope bore the same address, and this gave Algy the information he most needed. He made a note of it. It was Herr Wilhelm , Groot, Villa Hirondelle, Eze, Alpes Maritimes, France.

  Algy replaced the letters, pulled a button off a cuff for comparison, and after a cautious peep slipped out and locked the door. In a matter of minutes he had replaced the key in its proper place and returned to his own cabin, where he compared the button he had taken with the one in his pocket—the one that had been chiefly responsible for his mission. All doubt was dispelled. They were identical. So far so good. He had found such a man as the one he was looking for, although whether he was the one remained to be determined. As Groot was still on the raft, Mgy had a quick dip. Refreshed, he dressed, returned his key, and went to the exit to wait.