32 Biggles In The Orient

by Captain W E Johns

  apparent, however, that they were in that part devoted to the storage of merchandise, and by the character of it, the export department. Cases of tea, sacks ®f grain, bales and boxes stood stacked in orderly array from floor to ceiling, with narrow corridors between to permit the passage of those whose business it was to handle these goods. To Biggles, it seemed unlikely that Larapindi would conduct his affairs in that section of the building; it was almost certain that he would be somewhere in the administration department, and with the object of finding this he set off, moving quietly but quickly along a corridor that ran parallel with the narrow street outside, in the direction of the front entrance. Algy and Ginger followed close behind. The reek of the goods was not unpleasant, but it was almost overpowering in its pungency.

  After a little while, however, this smell began perceptibily to change, and the reason was soon evident. There was a break in the ranks of merchandise, and on the far side of the passage thus made the type of produce changed abruptly. Here, now, were wood and cardboard boxes bearing the names of British and United States manufacturers; clearly, the import department. Once Biggles stopped, and without speaking pointed to a large notice stencilled on one of the cases. The words were: CHARNEYS, LONDON.

  CONFECTIONERY. STOW AWAY FROM ENGINES.

  Biggles continued to walk forward, and presently perceived that he was nearing his first objective—the administrative block. The merchandise ended, to give way to numerous passages, with wood-partitioned offices, some large, some small, bearing the names of wholesale and retail departments and the names of their managers. Biggles' progress became slower and more cautious.

  So far not a sound of any sort had broken the tomblike silence of the warehouse; but now, passing an unpretentious stairway there came from somewhere in the distance, high above, no louder than the rustle of dry leaves, a murmur of voices. Biggles hesitated for a moment and then went on. He did not go far, being

  144

  brought to a halt when the passage ended at swing doors, panelled with panes of frosted glass, through which came a feeble but steady light. Switching out his torch, and laying a finger on his lips for silence, he made a stealthy reconnaissance. Then, with infinite care, he allowed the door to sink back into place and turned to the others.

  "It's the main hall," he breathed. "There's a man on duty inside the front door. We can't go any farther this way without being seen. We shall have to go back." He retreated as far as the narrow stairway, and after listening for a little while to the distant sound of talking began a discreet ascent.

  The staircase, after making two right-angle turns, ended in a corridor on the first floor, lighted by a single electric bulb. The corridor extended for some distance on either side, with doors at frequent intervals. All were shut. It was now possible to distinguish a single voice, a voice of authority it seemed, speaking rapidly. It still came from above. Biggles explored, and half a dozen paces along the corridor found another staircase leading upwards. It was precisely the same as the first, and for practical purposes a continuation of it. It mounted to the second floor, to another corridor identical with that of the floor below. The voice still came from above. Another advance took Biggles and his companions to the third floor. Still the voice came from higher up. It was now fairly clear, but after listening for a moment Biggles shrugged his shoulders. He could not identify the language, much less make out what was being said.

  Farther upward progress was now barred by a door on which a single word had been painted in white letters in several languages. One of the languages was English. The word was PRIVATE. Biggles tried the door. It opened readily, revealing another staircase. But this one was different. On the floors below the boards had been left bare; here they were covered by a thick red carpet. After a slight inclination of his head Biggles went on up to the next floor, into an atmosphere altogether different from those below. Gone, now, was any impression of a

  145

  warehouse or business office. The appointments were those of a luxury hotel, or a suite in a block of expensive flats. The staircase ended in what might best be described as an outer hall of some size, richly furnished and carpeted. Around this ball, opposite the intruders as they stood at the head of the staircase, were four doors. One stood ajar. The room to which it gave entrance was lighted, but it was not from here that the voices came. It was the room next to it.

  Biggles looked at the others with a puzzled expression on his face. He did not speak, but by a gesture indicated what he was thinking. Indeed, something was now explained that had puzzled Ginger all the way up the stairs —the loudness of the voice inside the room.

  It did not speak in an ordinary conversational tone, but was pitched high as though it were reading aloud to an audience. No explanation. of this being forthcoming, after a little grimace to indicate his lack of understanding, Biggles crossed the ball to the open door, and without touching it, peeped in. A faint click of the tongue, denoting surprise, brought the others to his side. Very slowly he pushed the door wide open so that the whole interior of the room could be seen. Strictly speaking it was not a room. It was a laboratory.

  After a swift survey of the scene Biggles paid no attention to the scientific apparatus that stood about, or the rows of jars and bottles that occupied the numerous

  shelves. He went straight to a bench on which had been accumulated an assortment of objects, a curious assortment—curious because they were not what one would

  expect to find in a laboratory. Most conspicuous were two cardboard boxes, bearing in bold type a name, and certain announcements, which to Biggles were becoming familiar. The name was Charneys. Both boxes had been broken open and part of their contents strewn on the bench. In one case it was chewing-gum; in the other, chocolate. Near these was a pile of loose wrapping-papers, some pink, some brown, that had obviously been torn

  carelessly from the products named on the boxes. The 146

  contents of the wrapping-papers, however, were not there. Close at hand, in two separate boxes, were identical wrapping-papers, but these were brand new. There were only two other objects on the bench, but they were significant. One was a small glass jar half filled with an oily, colourless liquid, and the other, a case across which lay a hypodermic syringe.

  It needed less time to observe. these things than to describe them, and after a long penetrating stare Giggles said softly: "This is it. We're in the dope shop. Larapindi didn't lose any time preparing samples for the new man to distribute at Dum Dum. This little collection tells the whole story. He takes the stuff as it arrives from England, unwraps as much as he needs, gives each sample a shot of dope with the needle, and rewraps it in a new paper. He can't inject much dope into a solid bar of chocolate, but no doubt one drop would be ample to knock out anyone not used to the stuff. I knew a fellow who once chewed a piece of charas—the dope that's most popular in India. To be on the safe side he nibbled a piece only half the size of an orange pip, but he went out as if he'd been hit on the head with a rolling-pin. We may assume that the stuff in that bottle is highly concentrated. I'd like to make Larapindi drink the lot. That's him talking in the next room; I recognise his voice, although what he has to shout about I don't know. We've enough evidence here to hang him, so let's see what he has to say about it. There may be some slight argument when he sees us, so have your guns handy. Algy, you stay here and don't let anybody touch this stuff. I'd like Raymond to see it just as it is. Come on, Ginger." As he finished speaking Biggles took his automatic from his pocket and slipped it into his right sleeve, so that it was held there by his fingers.

  Leaving Algy by the bench, followed by Ginger he returned to the hall and walked on to the door through which the voice still came. "He seems to have a lot to say," he murmured. "I shall try to open the door—assuming it isn't locked—without being seen, but I don't think

  147

  there's much hope of that. I've no idea of how he'll behave when he sees us, but you'd better be ready to move fast. Hold your h
at—here we go."

  Biggles' fingers closed firmly over the handle of the door. Very slowly he turned it. The door moved. A slit of light appeared between door and frame. He released the handle: but instead of the door remaining open only a few inches, as he intended, it continued the opening movement—slowly, but quite definitely.

  The result was inevitable. The movement was seen. But before that happened Biggles was granted three seconds' grace to absorb the picture presented to his gaze. It was enough, although what he saw was not what he expected. Far from it. He had thought, indeed, he had convinced himself—unwisely, as he later confessed—that there would be not more than three persons in the room; Larapindi, the steward who was to replace Lal Din, and perhaps the servant who had fetched him. Instead, there were not fewer than seven or eight people present. He did not count them. There was no time for that. Not that it mattered much. These men were seated round a large mahogany table, so that the proceedings had the appearance of a board meeting; a strange one, perhaps, because the centre of the table was occupied by a green stone idol. Larapindi was standing at the head of the table, unfortunately for Biggles, at the far end, because in that position he was facing the door. The heads of his disciples, or assistants, or agents, or whatever they were, were bowed in the direction of the idol in reverent adoration.

  Now, had this been all, Biggles might have been embarrassed, for he would have been the last man to interrupt a devotional ritual, whatever religion was involved. But it was not all. In front of each man, looking absurdly out of place on account of its blatantly European character, was a little heap of the packets Biggles had come to know so well; packets of chewing-gum and chocolate. This told him all he needed to know. The fact that several agents, instead of one, were being instructed in their 148

  duties, and that these agents were obviously being bound to their murderous tasks by a religious ceremony, made no difference to the broad situation. He had, as he had planned, caught the plotters red-handed. That was the dominating factor. Whether he and Ginger would be able to apprehend so many was another matter. They had at least the advantage of surprise.

  Larapindi was the first to observe the open door. He must have seen Biggles at the same time. His voice broke off abruptly. And thus, for a long second, the scene remained, immobile, frozen, as it were, like a screen play suddenly arrested. Then, as if wondering at the sudden cessation of sound, the bowed heads were raised. The agents looked at their chief. they saw his fixed expression and noted the direction of his stare. With one accord they turned.

  Biggles' gun slid into his hand and came up like the head of a striking cobra. "Don't move, anybody," he snapped. He would have avoided bloodshed had it been possible.

  It was not. Perhaps the agents did not understand. Be that as it may, the words broke the spell. The order was ignored. Movement returned, and it returned with a rush. With a unanimous gasp of alarm, and a crashing of overturning chairs, the agents sprang to their feet in panic. In doing this they came between Biggles and Larapindi, who was not slow to seize the opportunity this human cover provided. He sprang to the wall, and on the instant the room was plunged into darkness.

  Three streams of orange sparks leapt across the room. They started at the muzzle of Biggles' gun and ended at the spot where he had last seen Larapindi. Loud cries of fear accompanied the reports. There were answering shots from different points of the room, to be followed instantly by the thump of falling bodies. A little light entered through the open door from the hall, but it was not sufficient to enable Biggles to see clearly what was happening, except that all was in confusion. Men were staggering about, colliding with each other and falling over the

  149

  chairs. It was a situation for which he was not prepared, and one that seemed to defy immediate remedy. He had no desire to perpetrate a massacre. Realising that he could serve no useful purpose by remaining inside the room, and that there was a chance of his being knocked down in the melee, he backed to the hall. It seemed to be the wisest course, particularly as he had only to keep the door covered from the outside to prevent anyone from escaping. On the spur of the moment he assumed this; and it was no doubt a natural assumption; but in the event it turned out to be another mistake. He took up a position in the lighted hall on one side of the door, few paces from it, and shouted at Ginger to take up a similar position on the other side.

  "Plug anybody who tries to get away," he ordered grimly.

  "What a mess," muttered Ginger in a disgusted voice, as he obeyed. He side-stepped briskly as a little brown pan darted out, blazing wildly with a small automatic.

  Biggles fired and the man went down. "I'm afraid we've started something," he said, with a worried frown, as from somewhere in the lower regions there came a crashing and banging, with a few sporadic shots.

  "That must be our crowd breaking in—they've heard the rumpus," opined Ginger. "Why not lock the door, and keep Larapindi and the rest inside until the police come to collect them?" he suggested, indicating the room, from which now came an excited muttering.

  "That's an idea," agreed Biggles. He went to the door, and having taken the key from the far side, slammed it. He turned the key.

  While this brief operation was in progress other things were happening. Algy put his head round the laboratory door and demanded to be told what was going on. Biggles gave him a brief idea of what had happened, and ordered him to remain where he was.

  Voices were shouting somewhere below. Feet thumped on stairs.

  "Bigglesworth! Where are you?" called one voice.

  150

  "That sounds like Raymond," said Ginger. "What's he doing here?"

  "He must have followed us—like an old hound that won't be left out of the hunt,"

  answered Biggles, smiling. "Perhaps it's as well. I'll hand this mess over to him."

  Tug, gun in hand, appeared at the head of the stairs. There was blood on his face and on the front of his tunic. "Have you got 'em?" he asked excitedly.

  "Not exactly," replied Biggles. "What have you been up to?"

  "I met a bloke on the stairs," explained Tug. "He tried to stop me coming up. We had a row about it and he got the worst of it."

  Air Commodore Raymond, panting heavily, was the next to arrive. "What on earth are you doing here?" he demanded.

  "I might ask you that," returned. Biggles curtly. "I told you to keep out of it, so that—"

  "I know. So that if things went wrong you could shoulder the blame. I'm not having that.

  I brought you out, so if anyone is going to get a rap it will be me."

  "It may come to that," declared Biggles. "Larapindi is a big bug in this part of the world, and he may be able to pull enough strings to cause serious trouble in India. But we can talk about that later. Larapindi is the boss of the local spy ring—I've got all the evidence I need to prove that. He's in that room with some of his gang."

  "Then let's have him out," said the Air Commodore bluntly.

  "Okay," agreed Biggles. "But someone's liable to get hurt. I wanted to avoid that. I'm by no means sure of the nationality of some of these fellows, and we don't want to have a political issue made out of it. Still ..." He went to the door, turned the key, and pushing the door open, stepped inside. "Come out of that," he ordered. "The place is surrounded.

  You can't get away."

  There was a brief pause. Then, one by one, four men came out.

  "These men may be dressed like Hindus, but if they 151

  aren't Japs I'll eat my buttons," swore the Air Commodore.

  "Where are the rest?" said Biggles. The beam of his torch cut a wedge into the darkness of the room. He ran in and switched on the light. Three men were lying on the floor.

  Larapindi, was not among them. Biggles' eyes flashed round the room. There was only one possible hiding-place—a large safe that stood open. He went to it and looked inside, but the man he sought was not there.

  "He's got away," he rasped. "There must be a secret way out of
this room—probably a lift. It's no use looking for it now." He turned to the Air Commodore. "I'll leave you to take care of things here, sir. Algy's in the next room with some things you ought to see.

  Tug, you stay here with Ginger and give the Air Commodore a hand to clean up the mess. He'll need some help."

  Biggles made for the stairs.

  THE END OF THE TRAIL

  BIGGLES went down the stairs three at a time, not a little annoyed at the turn the affair had taken—annoyed with himself, that is, for not having taken more direct action in the room upstairs. He should, he thought, have foreseen the possibility of the move Larapindi had made; for should the chief enemy agent escape, the coup he had planned would have to be accounted a failure. There was a chance that Larapindi might still be somewhere in the building, and if that were so, by posting the rest of the squadron to cover the exits, his escape might be frustrated.

  He nearly fell over a body that lay at the foot of the second-floor staircase—presumably the man Tug had shot on his way up. Biggles turned his torch on him, and caught his breath sharply when it revealed a Japanese Air Force tunic. It was not until later, though, that he grasped the full significance of this. At the moment he was simply astonished that an enemy airman should wear uniform in such a place and at such a time. Without giving the matter serious thought, it flashed into his mind that the Japanese 152

  might possibly be one of those who had baled out in the combat, and had made his way under cover of dark to the warehouse, knowing that Larapindi would provide him with a hiding-place. The man still clutched in his hand a Japanese general service pattern revolver.

  Biggles ran on down to the main hall. The first thing he saw was a man in native dress—

  the hall porter, he thought—lying on his back on the floor. A knife lay beside him. Taffy Hughes, as pale as death, sat in a chair, one foot in a pool of blood, with Johnny Crisp, on his knees, twisting a tourniquet round his leg.