Biggles

by John Pearson

  ‘Absolutely! Most mysterious. But I suggest we direct our attention to rather more important topics than the appalling Gordon-Bell. What did you say the speciality was here? Lobster tails au gratin? This sea air’s made me feel distinctly peckish.’

  Excellent although the luncheon was, the topic of Gordon-Bell could not be so easily dismissed. It fascinated Algy, and as they strolled along the promenade that afternoon, it cropped up again, when a magnificent white Rolls-Royce swept past.

  ‘D’you see that, Biggles?’

  ‘Splendid motorcar,’ he replied. ‘And a very pretty girl inside.’

  ‘Sex will be your downfall, Bigglesworth my lad. Didn’t you see the driver? It was our old friend, Gordon-Bell!’

  ‘Some fellows do have all the luck without deserving it,’ said Biggles.

  For the next few days it seemed as if Gordon-Bell was dogging them. That night at the Casino he was there, immaculately dressed, and once again accompanied by the woman Biggles and Algy had spotted in the white Rolls-Royce. Beneath the glitter of the chandeliers she was more beautiful than ever. She wore a long black velvet dress, which showed off her blonde hair to perfection. As for the diamond necklace she was wearing, its splendour almost rivalled the perfection of her admirable bust. The salle privée that night was crammed with the best of Monegasque society, but she instantly stood out. So, for that matter, did her companion. Biggles remembered him as a frightened-looking youth from his days with 266, but now, in evening dress, his face tanned with the southern sun, Gordon-Bell was totally transformed.

  Biggles and Algy tried their luck at chemin-de-fer at the same table as this glamorous couple. Biggles won 200 francs, and then stopped.

  ‘Quite enough for one night, Algy. I’m not the Duke of Westminster — much as I’d like to be. Two hundred francs seems pretty good to me.’

  ‘But Algy was less circumspect. He lost on the king of hearts. He lost again on the knave of diamonds. He broke even for a while, but then his luck began to change. After half an hour’s play he had a pile of chips worth 2,000 francs before him on the green baize table.

  ‘Messieurs, mesdames, faîtes vos jeux,’ intoned the croupier, and Biggles nudged Algy in the ribs.

  ‘Enough’s enough,’ he whispered. ‘Take my advice and scarper with the winnings.’

  But Algy lacked his cousin’s Scottish streak, and at that moment glanced across the table. The woman with Gordon-Bell was nonchalantly placing two thousand-franc chips on black, and as she did so all eyes round the table narrowed at the sight of such a bet.

  ‘Faîtes vos jeux!’ chanted the croupier again, and on a sudden impulse Algy pushed all the chips he had onto the black as well.

  There was a sudden hush, and for just a moment Algy felt the woman’s eyes meet his across the table. The other bets were laid, and then came silence as the cards were played. A six of hearts, an eight of diamonds, then an ace of hearts.

  ‘Jehosaphat! You’ve won, my boy,’ said Biggles. But there was still one card to play and by now all eyes were on the croupier as he took the last card from the shoe. He silently deposited it on the table — and a gasp went up from all the players. It was the ace of diamonds, the dreaded ‘bird of death’ — which swept the board.

  Algy shrugged his shoulders philosophically and rose from the table.

  ‘Well, it’s not every night a chap can say he lost 2,000 francs.’

  ‘At least we made 200 francs between us,’ Biggles said consolingly. ‘Let’s go and invest it in a drink. Nothing like a little alcohol. I think we need it.’

  The dramatic end to Algy’s winning run started a general exodus from the table, and as the two friends made their way through to the main gaming rooms, they came almost face to face with Gordon-Bell and the woman in black velvet.

  Algy smiled awkwardly. ‘Sorry you lost like that. Dashed hard luck. Still, so did I, if it’s any consolation.’ Then, turning to Gordon-Bell he added. ‘I’ve an idea we’ve met before. Algy Lacey. I was in France with 266 squadron — and so was my friend, James Bigglesworth.’ He held out his hand, but Gordon-Bell appeared not to notice.

  ‘There must be some mistake, Mr, er, Lacey. We’ve never met before.’ He gave a brief dismissive nod, took the woman by the arm, and marched decisively away.

  ‘Phew,’ said Algy. ‘Collapse of stout party! Do we smell or something, dear old chap?’

  ‘Perhaps he was scared of your snake-like powers of attraction for the gentle sex, Algernon, my lad. But seriously, it was extremely odd. He obviously recognised us both. Perhaps he just didn’t want to be reminded of his murky past, and come to think of it, I can’t entirely blame him.’

  ‘Still,’ said Algy with a miserable expression on his face. ‘I don’t like being snubbed like that, particularly in the presence of a woman. Makes a fellow feel a proper goof!’

  Biggles slapped him firmly on the shoulder.

  ‘Just forget it, Algy. The champagne bottle calls. Come and drown your sorrows in the fleshpots of the south!’

  But Gordon-Bell could not be dismissed so easily. As Biggles and Algy sat together in the bar of the Hotel de Paris, he and his beautiful companion suddenly swept past. Next day the white Rolls-Royce was once again purring along the promenade, and once again the small blue biplane did its aerobatics while they were drinking their pre-lunch aperitifs.

  ‘Why can’t the blighter go away?’ said Algy irritably, as all conversation on the terrace stopped against the roar of the machine.

  ‘He’ll go away for good, if he carries on like this,’ replied Biggles. ‘Just look at the idiot now! He wants his head examined.’

  Even as Biggles pointed, the small aircraft zoomed up above the harbour in a dizzying climb, rolled, and came screeching down towards the sea, and, as on the day before, people on the terrace suddenly stood up to see what happened.

  ‘I’m getting somewhat bored with this,’ said Algy, lighting a Turkish cigarette with his old storm-proof Air Force lighter.

  ‘Why don’t we go and eat?’ said Biggles.

  But, before they could rise, there was a dull explosion from the direction of the harbour, followed by silence — then a hubbub of excited voices.

  A woman shrieked, and Biggles shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Somehow I don’t think Mr Gordon-Bell will be troubling us any more,’ he said.

  When they had eaten, Biggles and Algy strolled down to the harbour, out of curiosity. One of the hotel porters had already told them that the plane had narrowly missed hitting several yachts and had crashed into the sea, and by the time they arrived at the harbour there was already a cluster of small boats in the bay trying to raise the wreckage. There was a pair of divers with their big brass helmets, a barge with a crane aboard, and quite a crowd of watchers on the quay.

  ‘What is it about a crash that always brings the ghouls along to have a look?’ said Biggles tetchily. ‘Anyone would think that it was entertainment.’

  ‘Well, what are we doing here ourselves?’ asked Algy logically.

  ‘We’re rather different. After all, we’re in the business, which is more than can be said for them!’ As he spoke he glared at a group of children who were following the salvage operations with considerable excitement, chattering and shouting as the remains of the fuselage were winched above the water. The wings and tail had broken off, but the blue-painted body of the plane was still intact, and as it was raised and swung aboard the barge, one could clearly see a huddled something in the cockpit, all that now remained of Gordon-Bell.

  ‘Poor silly devil,’ murmured Biggles. His face had drained of colour. He had encountered violent death more often than he cared to think, but the sight could still unnerve him. ‘Why d’you think he did it?’

  ‘We’ll never know,’ said Algy. ‘The tiniest misjudgment is all it needs.’

  ‘Of course. But why did the crazy lunatic take such appalling risks? It’s different if you’re up against the Huns – and if you cop it then, that’s that. But wh
y on earth destroy yourself for nothing?’

  ‘P’raps he wanted to, old boy. He was a funny character, and I’ve known it happen. Or perhaps he really did feel he had to show off to that bird of his. That’s something even I can understand.’

  As Algy spoke, he turned away and Biggles followed him. ‘Good Lord,’ said Algy suddenly. ‘Just look at that. Cherchez la femme with a blinking vengeance, Biggles. That woman must be cold as ice!’

  There on the road above the harbour wall stood the white Rolls-Royce, with Gordon-Bell’s woman at the wheel. She was watching as they drew his body from the cockpit, and calmly smoked a cigarette.

  ‘Paging Major Bigglesworth! Paging Major Bigglesworth!’ The voice of the bell-boy echoed round the cocktail lounge of the Hôtel de Paris.

  Biggles beckoned to him.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘Call for you from London, sir! Waiting on the line.’

  Tipping the boy ten centimes, Biggles went off to take the call in the kiosk by the porter’s office.

  ‘Ah, Bigglesworth!’ exclaimed a distant but unmistakeable voice. ‘We’ve tracked you down.’

  ‘Colonel Raymond!’ replied Biggles cautiously. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘We have our methods at New Scotland Yard. I gather from my spies that you and Lacey are on holiday. We policemen can’t indulge in such frivolities. What’s the weather like?’

  Biggles told him, knowing quite well that the head of Scotland Yard’s Criminal Information Department was not in the habit of making international telephone calls to inquire about the weather.

  ‘Capital! Absolutely capital! I hope the two of you have been making the most of it.’

  ‘We have, sir, and we plan to do so for the next ten days.’

  ‘Of course, of course. But while you’re busy sunning yourselves or whatever you do, I wondered if you’d see your way to doing a little job for me.’

  ‘Well,’ began Biggles still more cautiously.

  ‘Nothing particularly difficult. Just an inquiry, but as you happened to be on the spot...’

  Biggles groaned.

  ‘What’s that you said?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. We’d be delighted.’

  ‘I knew you would. It’s about a scallywag called Gordon-Bell. Ex-flier like yourself. Living in Monte Carlo. Been hearing some worrying reports from Nisberg at the French Sûreté. Wondered if you could tactfully check the blighter out and ring me back. If we can avoid a scandal with a British national it always helps.’

  ‘You’re five hours late sir, I’m afraid. The poor devil’s dead.’

  ‘Dead! But how?’

  Biggles told him. There was a brief silence on the line, and Biggles could picture Colonel Raymond at his desk with that brooding frown he knew so well.

  ‘Sorry, Bigglesworth,’ he said at last, ‘but this is very serious and I have no alternative but to ask you and Lacey to conduct a thorough inquiry on my behalf.’

  ‘But surely the French police will do that, sir?’

  ‘Indeed they will, and that’s what worries me. This is a very delicate affair. Now listen ...’

  ‘And so you see, old sport, there was nothing I could say — apart from refusing point-blank. And we owe a lot to Colonel Raymond.’

  Biggles looked as sheepish as he sounded but Algy was furious.

  ‘That’s no excuse for getting us to do his dirty work for him while we are here on holiday,’ he exclaimed. ‘I was just planning a day’s outing in the Bentley for tomorrow. Thought we might nip across to Italy. There’s motor-racing at San Remo.’

  ‘’Fraid it’ll have to wait.’

  Algy shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘O.K. You win, as usual. Now what exactly is this business about Gordon-Bell being mixed up in some racket smuggling cocaine? I never heard such nonsense.’

  ‘I know it sounds improbable,’ said Biggles, ‘but the Colonel doesn’t often make mistakes. He told me that just two days ago the French police in Paris rounded up a gang who were supplying drugs on a scale they’d never known since before the war. Millions of francs worth of the stuff. Most of the characters involved were small-time criminals but it was obvious to Commissioner Nisberg that someone big must be behind it all. Most of the crooks were Corsicans.’

  ‘They usually are.’

  ‘Quite right. Which made him think at first that it was the Union Corse — the Corsican Mafia — but it seems that just for once it wasn’t. Several of the crooks broke down.’

  ‘I’m not surprised with Nisberg interrogating them. Rather them than me, old fruit.’

  ‘Or me. But the long and short of it was that all of them insisted that the centre of operations wasn’t Corsica at all, but Monte Carlo. Gordon-Bell was mentioned and the real headquarters of the whole affair was apparently his girl-friend’s yacht, the Evening Cloud. The two of them were running the racket together. She’s an American, married to some Italian. Calls herself Contessa Torelli, and they’ve been making trips along the Italian coast, picking up the stuff, then flying it up to Paris in that plane of his.’

  ‘Well, all that’s over now,’ said Algy. ‘Neither our old friend Gordon-Bell nor his aeroplane will do any more drug-running this side of the great hereafter, and I’ll take a bet that the lovely Countess is now safely back with her Italian husband, wherever he may be. So what exactly are we supposed to do?’

  ‘Conduct a small investigation of our own. It seems that Colonel Raymond isn’t satisfied about Gordon-Bell’s demise. I’ve an idea that Raymond’s keeping something up his sleeve about the man, but he asked me if we’d have a look at the wreckage of the plane on his behalf. Probably nothing in it, but you never know.’

  The remains of the small blue biplane had been dragged into a warehouse near the quay when Biggles and Algy went to see them early next morning. They had no difficulty with the Monegasque police, thanks to a telegram from Paris, and apart from the presence of a single gendarme they were left in peace to examine the wreckage. Clearly no one else had bothered, but as fliers themselves, Biggles and Algy were both interested in inspecting it. This had been standard practice after any air crash with the R.F.C., and Biggles had had good experience in this sort of air detective work.

  ‘Nifty little bus,’ said Algy casting an expert eye over the controls. ‘Everything seems in order. Looks as if it was straightforward pilot error that was responsible. Silly devil simply thought himself a bit too clever.’

  ‘So it would appear,’ said Biggles, ‘but I’m still not entirely convinced. Why should a pilot of his obvious experience and skill crash like that?’

  ‘Search me!’ said Algy. ‘But in the meantime what do you propose to do?’

  ‘I thought I’d take a stroll up to the morgue — to have a look at what remains of Gordon-Bell. I know that Raymond will ask me if I’ve seen it. Coming?’

  Algy looked uneasy.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘If you really want me to.’

  Biggles looked at him and smiled understandingly. Algy had always been the squeamish sort.

  ‘No point in two of us having to face the unpleasantness. Why don’t you go back to the hotel. I’ll meet you there for lunch.’

  ‘Righty-ho, Biggles! Oh, and thanks!’

  Viewing the corpse was not a task that Biggles relished either, but there was no dodging it, and the police doctor, a gnome-like Frenchman with an enormous belly and elaborate pince-nez, was already waiting for him. He was a talkative little man and all the time that he was showing Biggles what he called ‘Exhibit numero trois’, he chatted on about the other sudden deaths he had had to deal with. Most of them, it seemed, were suicides. ‘Foreigners, monsieur, who visit the Casino, stake all their livelihood on the tables, lose and have nothing left, then — poof!’ He clapped his hands together and grinned up at Biggles. ‘This poor countryman of yours seems to have been rather similar, monsieur.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Biggles in surprise.

  ‘Official
ly, of course, the death was accidental. That’s what I’ve entered on the police report. But there was more to it than that. Look monsieur!’ With a gesture formed by long experience, he flicked back the sheet to reveal the body. The legs were badly smashed, but the head and trunk were more or less intact. ‘Here!’ said the doctor, lifting up an arm. ‘Do you notice anything?’ Feeling slightly sick by now, Biggles examined the lifeless limb. On the inside, from the elbow to the wrist, was a row of livid dots.

  ‘You know, of course, what that means?’ said the doctor.

  Biggles shook his head.

  ‘The poor man was an addict. When I analysed his blood I discovered strong evidence of heroin. It would have made him over-confident and blurred his judgment, and I imagine that that was how he died.’

  It was a nasty business, but the discovery of Gordon-Bell’s addiction solved a lot of problems — the change of personality from the character they had known, and his involvement in the drug-ring. It also helped explain his wild flying and the manner of his death. The drugs had helped him overcome his fear, then made him increasingly reckless so that obviously his judgment had been impaired.

  ‘Poor silly devil,’ mused Biggles to himself as he strolled back across the harbour to the hotel, ‘but at any rate I have something to report to Colonel Raymond.’

  He looked along the quay and was not entirely surprised to see that the Evening Cloud had gone. What did surprise him was that there was no sign of Algy when he got back to the hotel, so he waited in the bar and put his call through to Colonel Raymond.

  ‘Bad business,’ said the Colonel when Biggles told him about Gordon-Bell. ‘An ex-officer too. Can’t think where they get these filthy habits. Tell you the truth, we’d had our eye on him for quite some while. He’d been dabbling in espionage for the Eastern Powers as well. Thoroughly bad hat. Still, de mortuis and all that, Bigglesworth.’

  ‘Exactly, sir,’ said Biggles. ‘No point in judging the poor fellow now he’s dead.’

  ‘Quite. Of course, the real villain is that woman friend of his. What did you say her name was?’