50 Biggles and the Pirate Treasure

by Captain W E Johns

  Little was said on the way home. Reaching the apartment Biggles tossed his hat aside and dropped into an easy chair. Suddenly he grinned. 'We've had quite a morning, haven't we? Alice Hall certainly started something.

  We've gone pretty fast, too, but this, I fancy, is where we begin to slow down.'

  'You're going through with it, then ? '

  'Too true I am. It's on account of these smugglers that decent people have to be searched when they enter or leave the country. Aside from that I think it's monstrous that a dupe should be made of a nice girl like Alice Hall. We know she acted in good faith. But the Customs people are tough. They have to be. Had that packet been found on Alice she would have probably have gone to gaol.'

  'What do we do next ? '

  'Let's run over what we know. Smuggling on a big scale is rife. High on the list of contraband is expensive jewellery which, weighing practically nothing, is hard to detect.

  Yesterday Alice Hall came through with something – we don't know what: obviously she was innocent of fraud or she wouldn't have told us about it. The packet was given to her in Nice by one Carlo Antonio Barrosa, a Sicilian with a criminal record. It was collected over here by another Sicilian, a woman using the name of Mary Jones. The hookup of nationalities might be coincidence, of course. Barrosa and the Contessa may have known each other in Sicily, which is not a very large island.

  The title may not be genuine. Even if it is it means little, for in Italy Contessas are two a penny. If our suspicions are correct, this lady is now in possession of a valuable piece of jewellery. She will, we may suppose, sell it at a profit, a nice profit too, bearing in mind that no duty was paid on it. To whom will she sell it? To a jeweller? No. That would be asking for trouble. No jeweller with that amount of money would dare to handle stuff as hot as that. In fact, the jewel could hardly be sold publicly at all, for if it were, questions would be asked about it.

  This is no cheap trinket. Very well. What other way is there of disposing of it? My guess is that the Countess will sell it privately through her connections in high society – which doesn't mean, of course, that the buyer will suspect anything illegal in the deal. In a word, it looks to me as if this is how the Countess manages to live in style. This morning's consignment wasn't the first, you may be sure.'

  'What beats me,' put in Ginger, 'is that Barrosa was prepared to entrust the goods to an unknown girl.'

  'I don't think there was much risk attached to that,' declared Biggles.

  'The average person is honest and reliable in such matters. Alice, for instance. She would have gone to untold trouble to fulfil her obligation.

  As for Customs, the risk was negligible, and therein lies the clever part of the scheme. The person carrying the contraband would be unaware of it.

  Customs Officers are trained for their job. They have eyes like hawks. A hesitant answer, or a glib one; the flicker of an eyelid; a mere suspicion of nervousness and they've got you. As they haven't time to search everyone to the skin it is upon such signs that they rely. If the person carrying contraband is unaware of it such signs are not forthcoming. We've been through Customs a good many times but we've never been searched. Why? Because we had nothing to declare. If ever you are fool enough to try to bring something in you might find it a very different story.'

  'I'll remember it,' promised Ginger. 'Where do we go from here ? '

  'The first thing is to find out what is in these packages that are coming over, and that may not be as easy as it sounds.'

  'But the Post Office has only to open the next packet addressed to Miss Mary Jones, and—'

  'They may refuse to do that. A dim view is taken of any interference with the Royal Mail.

  Suppose they did cooperate and a jewel was found. What then? Barrosa, being in France, would get away with it. And the Contessa would disclaim all knowledge of the packet, which, after all, isn't addressed to her under her own name. The crooks would simply lose a jewel, which they can well afford, and then think out another scheme. No. We've got to get them red-handed, with the goods on them. I have a feeling that to get both of them in the bag we shall have to start at the other end, which means bringing Marcel Brissac, of the French

  Suireté, into the picture. Barrosa is, of course, breaking the French law as well as ours.

  Just a minute. Let me think about this.'

  Biggles was silent for some time, deep in thought, but at last he looked up. 'I think I've got it,' he said. 'Let's run over to Paris and have a word with Marcel. When we've got the Nice end tied up we'll see Gaskin.

  I'll tell you the set-up on the way.'

  Three days later a rather prim-looking Englishwoman strolled on to the terrace of the Ruhl Hotel, Nice, and sitting at one of the small round tables ordered tea. It was not by accident that she chose a table near the one occupied by Carlo Barrosa, for she was, in fact, a police-woman from the Yard's special squad and she had studied the Sicilian's photograph well before she had started.

  In a few minutes, Barrosa having found an opening, they were in conversation. Soon afterwards he moved his chair to her table. An hour later they were still talking, Barrosa with great earnestness. Presently she looked at her watch. They both got up.

  Barrosa was in the act of handing over a small package when two men who had been standing talking not far away closed in on him swiftly, one on either side.

  The Italian must have realized instantly what was happening for he was off in a flash, only to run into the arms of a waiting gendarme. Cursing and struggling he was secured and brought face to face with the Englishwoman. In front of half a dozen police witnesses the package was opened carefully and eyes saucered as she lifted out of it a magnificent diamond necklace.

  Still cursing Barrosa was led away.

  The British police agent carefully re-wrapped the package at the Commissariat de Police before being taken in a police car to the railway station.

  When the boat train drew into Victoria the next evening she dropped the packet in the station letter-box.

  The morning following saw an unusual amount of activity both inside and outside the little newsagent's shop in the Tottenham Court Road. Two window cleaners were at work near the door. A burly figure in a dark suit, smoking a pipe, was sorting some magazines with the help of an assistant. Mr. Cermak, rather pale, was dragging nervously on a cigarette. 'Why don't you tell me what it is all about, Inspector,' he complained. 'I don't know anything. I swear it. I'd help the police '

  'Just carry on with your work. Remember what I told you, and try not to look as if I was going to bite you,' growled Inspector Gaskin.

  This masquerade did not last long. A few customers called for newspapers or cigarettes.

  The postman delivered some letters and a small package. A few minutes later an Austin Ten drew up and a good-looking, well-dressed woman entered.

  'Have you anything for Miss Mary Jones ? ' she inquired. 'Are you Miss Mary Jones ? '

  asked the shopkeeper.

  'Of course I am. You know that perfectly well,' answered the woman, with a touch of asperity.

  Cermak handed over the packet. 'Is this yours ? '

  The woman read the address. 'Yes, this is mine,' she said curtly. 'You should know me by this time.' She caught her breath sharply as she glanced behind her and saw four men standing there. The colour drained from her face.

  'Excuse me, madam,' said Inspector Gaskin. 'I am an officer from Scotland Yard and I must see the contents of that packet. Four witnesses have heard you say that you are Miss Mary Jones and that the package is yours.'

  The Contessa di Malliori did not answer. She had fainted. 'Get her inside,' said the inspector crisply.

  Biggles was looking through his morning mail when the phone rang He picked up the receiver, and a slow smile spread over his face as he listened. 'That was Gaskin,' he told Ginger as he hung up. 'They're both in the bag.'

  'What was in the packet ? '

  'A diamond necklace which has been identified as part
of a big jewel raid recently in one of the swagger villas in the South of France. It'll be some time, I fancy, before the Countess gives any more of her famous parties. And all because I happened to bust a suspender! Queer how things work out, isn't it ? '

  NIGHT FLIGHT

  'We shall have to do something about these missing machines, Bigglesworth.' The eyes that Air Commodore Raymond, head of the Air Section at Scotland Yard, turned to meet those of his chief operational pilot, were sombre with worry.

  'Not another ? '

  'Yes. Word has just come through. One of the new Planets belonging to Orient Airways.'

  'Where did it happen this time?'

  'Same place. Over the Eastern Mediterranean. London-Cyprus night service.

  Mostly freight and mails for the troops in the Middle East. The radio operator spoke to Nicosia at eleven. All was well. Weather fine. Machine running on time. After that, silence.

  Searchers report not a trace. That's the fourth machine gone in a month, all in the same area. Don't tell me it's coincidence. What's going on ? '

  'Your guess should be as good as mine.'

  'If it goes on, the House will ask the Air Minister why — and he'll ask me. What am I going to tell him?'

  Biggles smiled cynically. 'Tell him that if it continues machines will run empty and the route will have to pack up. People are getting scared.

  Aside from which, insurance rates will go up beyond economic limits. As it is, the premiums on these big new machines make it almost impossible to run them at a profit. Insurance companies will stand for flying risks, but not sabotage.'

  'You think it might be - sabotage ? '

  'Frankly, no. But they may think so. A machine in the drink is no use to anyone. An aircraft with a certificate of airworthiness is worth money-a lot of money. Second-hand machines are big business. There are too many little countries between here and the Orient that couldn't afford new stuff even if it were available; but they'll pay cash for anything on wings, delivered and no questions asked. Obsolete service transports, stripped of military equipment, have been showing big profits; but there are not many of them left.'

  'What exactly are you saying ? '

  'I'm saying that a new Planet, costing a quarter of a million, delivered behind the Iron Curtain, should be worth at least £50,000.'

  'Have you any reason for making that statement ? '

  'M.I.5 have a report that British and U.S. types have been seen working on the Red Route between the Near East and China. The machines that have disappeared were all East-bound. They all carried mail and freight, mostly military, for Cyprus and the Canal Zone.

  '

  'Then you think someone is pirating these machines ? '

  Biggles shrugged. 'Why not? There's nothing easier to steal than an aircraft if you know how to fly it and have somewhere to take it. A ship needs a crew. A car can't be got out of the country. An aircraft, handled by one man, can be a thousand miles off its course before it's missed.

  Once the pilot is knocked out what can the passengers do about it?

  Nothing.'

  'And what happens to the passengers ? '

  'What happens to anyone on the wrong side of the Curtain? Don't ask me.

  You should know.'

  'That's a grim thought.'

  'We live in grim times.' Biggles looked hard at the Air Commodore. 'Had we any particular interest in these passengers ? ' he questioned meaningly.

  Raymond hesitated. 'Unfortunately, yes. On the last occasion a Queen's Messenger was on board. That might be coincidence.'

  'And it might not. He would be carrying important documents, of course.'

  'Yes. That makes the loss all the more lamentable.'

  'It also makes the machine a more valuable prize - in the right place.'

  The Mr Commodore did not answer.

  Biggles went on: 'Having got away with a machine the pirate comes back to Western Europe and repeats the performance. It's as easy as that.'

  'All right. Let's say we've agreed on that,' said the Air Commodore curtly. 'What are we going to do about it ? '

  'Obviously, we shall have to nail this modern Captain Kidd.'

  'How? He'll carry false papers. We can't cross-check the passport of every passenger.

  Most of them are foreigners. It would take too long. People fly because they're in a hurry.

  '

  'He must be caught on the job.'

  'Are you suggesting that we arm all pilots and air crews? The passengers, if there were any, would take a dim view of that.'

  'No. It isn't practicable. It wouldn't work, anyway. The pirate would shoot first. I'd better take over one of the machines and find out what's happening.'

  'How can you tell which machine will be the next one selected ? '

  Biggles smiled faintly. 'I'll select it myself.'

  'How ? '

  'By dangling a bait no crook could resist. Gold. Fascinating stuff, gold.

  Let the Press know that on a certain date a certain aircraft will be carrying £100,000 in bullion to the Mid-East. It might as well be another Planet on the Cyprus run. I'll fly the machine with my own crew in ten days' time. That'll give the pirate a chance to get back here and organize the raid. We'll repeat the programme till he takes the lure.

  Even if the scheme doesn't work we stand to lose nothing.'

  'Only your lives.'

  'That's what policemen are paid for.'

  'Okay. We'll try it. Anything you want ? '

  'I'd like to see the passenger lists of the machines that have disappeared.'

  'I'll get them for you.'

  'Fair enough. I shall be ready when you are.'

  The Planet droned on and on monotonously under a starlit sky high above a tenuous layer of mist that bid the world from view. In the cabin the ten passengers had fallen silent.

  Some were dozing. In the luggage compartment, with their luggage that had been carefully checked by Customs officers at the airport, were the sealed boxes which, according to the newspapers, contained gold destined for the Middle East.

  In the rear seat of the cabin, in a steward's uniform, sat Air-Constable

  'Ginger'

  Hebblethwaite, his eyes roving restlessly over the heads in front of him.

  Over and over again he considered each in turn, speculating on the likelihood of the pirate being among them. He knew them all by name, by age and by profession — at least, according to the particulars shown on their passports. Like most long-distance bookings it was a cosmopolitan list. A check with previous lists had revealed nothing, no clue, no duplication.

  In the front seats, on either side of the gangway, were two youngish American journalists bound for Suez and the Canal Zone to cover operations for their respective papers. They had asked particularly for the front seats. Had there been a sinister reason for that or did they merely think the seats were the most comfortable? Only they knew. For a time they had talked loudly, harshly, in slick American vernacular, drinking whiskies and sodas.

  They were quiet now.

  Behind them sat a South African and his wife, returning home after a holiday in Britain.

  The man seemed restless, fidgeting in his seat and trying to see through the window.

  Next behind them were a political officer posted to the Sudan, and an immaculate, sleek spice merchant calling at Cyprus before going on to Corinth. Behind again came the representative of a Turkish tobacco firm, en route for Istanbul, and a Swiss engineer going to Abyssinia. Both looked types who might be able to fly. Finally, there was a German film director, on his way to Upper Egypt to make a desert picture. His wife was with him. The man was middle-aged, with a taciturn but clever face.

  The woman, a blonde, had been pretty, but had rather gone to seed, putting on too much weight.

  Thus soliloquized Ginger, watching them all.

  By his right hand was a special installation. It was a switch. A touch would flash a red light on the instrument panel where Biggles and A
lgy Lacey sat at the controls, and in the radio compartment where Air-Constable Bertie Lissie was on duty.

  Ginger's orders were simple and explicit. Should any passenger approach the bulkhead door at the forward end of the cabin the warning light was to be flashed.

  He looked at his watch, and then spoke loudly and clearly over the intercom. 'Ladies and gentlemen, we are now leaving the coast on the eastern side of the Italian Peninsular.

  There is fine weather ahead and we are running on time. Thank you.'