Biggles

by John Pearson

  ‘But what about the actual crime wave in the air that you were telling us about the other day? Somebody must be tackling it,’ said Algy.

  ‘Ah-ha! You’d think so, wouldn’t you dear boy. But not so,’ replied Raymond bitterly. ‘Tell you the truth, that’s what really worries me. I’m not particularly concerned about my own career. I’ve got my yacht, and it would quite suit me to retire for a bit and cruise around the Med. Might even write my memoirs. But the fact is, Algy, that the actual situation’s far, far worse than I imagined. Already with the ending of the war, several really big-time international crooks have moved into the airlines, and there’s one area in particular that worries me.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Biggles quickly.

  ‘Dangerous drugs. Chiefly heroin but also morphine and cocaine. There are fortunes to be made by smuggling them from the East through Britain to America, and I know that already quite a large part of the traffic goes by air. That’s what I want to stop.’

  ‘Why don’t you have a go then, sir?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘That’s what I want to do, of course,’ the Air Commodore replied, ‘but I’ve got no one to rely on. It takes far longer than you’d imagine to train up the sort of organisation we require, and amateurs would do more harm than good. No, what I need are two or three professionals who can really carry through a complicated case, but it’s dashed difficult to find them.’

  There was a silence, and Biggles looked inquiringly at Algy, who nodded back at him.

  ‘I think I know just the chaps you’re looking for,’ said Biggles thoughtfully.

  ‘You do, James? Capital! Who are they then?’ the Air Commodore replied.

  ‘A pair called Bigglesworth and Lacey. I think I can recommend them.’ There are conflicting versions of the beginning of the Special Air Police, but the truth is that this world-famous organisation really began effective life that night in the dining room of the Blazers’ Club. Nothing was put down on paper and the whole arrangement was informal to a degree. The chums accepted what Air Commodore Raymond termed ‘a temporary attachment’ to the force, which suited them ideally. Their work soon proved to be a logical continuation of the sort that Biggles and Co. had done for Raymond in the years between the wars. Neither of the chums really needed the money, which was just as well, since their official salaries would barely have paid the rent in Mount Street — let alone their extras and their self-indulgences, such as Algy’s Bentley (a generous petrol allowance proved to be one of the perks of the job), their dinners at the Ritz (they didn’t like the changes that the war had brought to the Café Royal), and Biggles’ hand-made Turkish cigarettes. On the other hand, the Special Air Police undoubtedly did give a point and purpose to their lives, and let them continue with that life of ‘flying and adventure’ they had always wanted.

  All this lay in the future though, and neither of the chums had much idea what they were in for when they descended from their taxi on the Embankment at nine o’clock next morning, strolled past the Duty Sergeant at New Scotland Yard, and had themselves directed to the sixth floor abode of their new lord and master.

  Somewhat to his chagrin, the Air Commodore had not succeeded in reclaiming his pre-war office with its splendid view across the river. (In his absence it had been firmly nabbed by the Scotland Yard solicitor-in-chief who was determined to hang on to it.) But, although his surroundings were less imposing than they used to be, Raymond himself was very much the office martinet they remembered, and behind his desk that steely presence was quite different from the discouraged figure they had dined with just the night before.

  ‘James, Algy, good to have you back on strength!’ he barked as they entered.

  ‘Quite like old times, sir,’ replied Biggles with a grin.

  ‘Well, yes and no,’ replied Raymond, with a frosty smile. ‘I think you’ll find that it’s a tougher world than it used to be, and certainly the gang that we are up against in this heroin racket seem better organised than any of the criminals we’ve dealt with in the past. I warn you, it will be a tough assignment.’

  ‘But we really have a free hand, do we sir?’ inquired Biggles.

  Raymond nodded.

  ‘That’s what we agreed last night, but I must warn you that I need results. As I told you, everybody’s breathing down my neck, and that’s not a situation I particularly enjoy.’

  ‘What information do you have already, sir?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘Precious little. That’s the trouble. All that we have to go on at the moment are the reports we’ve been receiving from the narcotics branch of the American Treasury Department, complaining that a great deal of their illicit traffic comes through Britain. Also, the Customs boys at Heathrow recently arrested a B.O.A.C. steward, boy by the name of Hinds, with half a million dollars’ worth of heroin on him.’

  ‘How was he carrying the stuff?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘Hidden inside a tube of shaving cream. Old trick of course, but something about the boy aroused the officer’s suspicions and he gave him a thorough going over. Very smart of him. First real break we’ve had.’

  ‘And what about this steward. Has he admitted anything?’

  Raymond shook his head.

  ‘That’s the devil of it all,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a go at him myself, but all that the little blighter will admit is that the stuff was given to him during a stop-over in Rome by a man he’d never seen before. He was to be paid a hundred dollars to deliver it to someone who would meet him in New York.’

  ‘No hint of who this someone was?’

  ‘Of course not. He would be waiting by a news stand in Times Square, but by the time we told this to the F.B.I, the gang had obviously heard their fellow was arrested, and the bird had flown.’

  ‘That’s all we’ve got to go on then?’ said Biggles thoughtfully.

  ‘Afraid it is, dear boy. I told you it would be a tough assignment.’

  During that first day at Scotland Yard, Biggles and Algy had to spend most of the time doing what Raymond called ‘getting acquainted with the ropes’. This included meeting the Commissioner himself, learning their way around the building, and finding out what resources the Special Air Police had at its disposal. It was soon obvious that there were precious few. Biggles and Algy had been allocated a cramped little office on Raymond’s floor, and had to share it with several dark green filing cabinets and a hefty secretary called Brenda. They were also introduced to various other members of the section.

  ‘Not a particularly inspiring set of colleagues, Algy, old chap,’ remarked Biggles when they were alone again. ‘Most of them seem to be old-time coppers on the verge of retirement.’

  ‘Or else nutters no one else would work with,’ replied Algy grimly. ‘Poor old Raymond was obviously right when he complained about the jealousies of the senior policemen. Small wonder that he’s not been getting very far.’

  ‘Exactly! And you’d hardly say that anybody has given us a particularly rapturous welcome. Still, I suppose it’s understandable. New boys like us coming straight in from outside — people are naturally suspicious. All the more reason for us to make a real success of this affair, old fruit.’

  ‘Very high quality, I’d say, so obviously produced in an up-to-date laboratory and almost certainly in Europe. You don’t get heroin as good as this produced in the Far East, unless it’s in Formosa and Japan, and this hasn’t come from there.’

  The white-coated figure in the police laboratory looked up from his microscope and showed signs of starting on a lengthy lecture on the manufacture and analysis of heroin. Normally, Biggles and Algy would have heard him out, for Biggles in particular enjoyed listening to experts on their favourite subjects. But, they were in a hurry to get down to interview the steward, Hinds, who was still being held at the Hounslow Police Station.

  ‘I take it that you know the way this stuffs produced?’ began the expert slowly.

  ‘Pretty well,’ replied Biggles, trying not to sound too know-all, but rememberin
g the time. ‘Starts off as opium, doesn’t it? The opium is processed into morphine and that in turn is then converted into heroin. I suppose that this required a fair degree of skill and a good laboratory.’

  The expert shook his head.

  ‘Not at all. I’ve known heroin produced in the wash-room of a Chinese restaurant, but it was pretty dreadful stuff. But this is the real mackoy. Ninety-seven per cent pure, which isn’t bad at all. That’s why I say the processing was almost certainly done in Europe.’

  ‘You can’t be more specific?’ queried Biggles.

  ‘Afraid I can’t. But I’m fairly sure the original opium base came from Turkey. A lot of it does these days, and it’s better quality than the Far Eastern stuff. Anything else you need to know?’

  ‘Not for the moment,’ replied Biggles diplomatically. ‘We’re both in something of a rush to interview the joker who was smuggling the stuff.’

  ‘Are you indeed? Then give the blighter hell. This little haul alone would have spelled living death for twenty thousand addicts in America. If I had my way I’d hang anyone caught smuggling heroin these days.’

  ‘And what about the big boys behind the trafficking?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘I’d crucify them — except that slow death would be too good for them.’

  Despite the analyst’s grim imprecations, it was hard for Biggles not to feel a certain pity for the object of his anger. Air Steward Hinds could never have been an impressive figure of a man. Now he was pathetic, with his white face, bloodshot eyes and terrible moustache. Biggles soon realised something else about the wretched fellow. He was terrified.

  Biggles and Algy interviewed him at the Police Station, and to begin with, he did little more than repeat the tale he had given Raymond. He hadn’t realised what he was doing, and had no idea who was behind the traffic.

  ‘Who was the man who gave you the tube of shaving cream in Rome?’ asked Algy.

  ‘No idea,’ said Steward Hinds with an adenoidal croak. ‘He was just some geyser in a club.’

  ‘What club?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better try. Whereabouts was it in Rome?’

  ‘I dunno that either. It was just a club. I went there for a drink, with one of my mates, and this character came up and asked me if I wanted to earn myself a hundred dollars. You know the rest.’

  Biggles nodded. He did not particularly enjoy the role of police interrogator.

  ‘Who was this “mate” of yours who took you to the club? Was he another steward?’

  Hinds gave a jump of pasty-faced alarm.

  ‘I didn’t say so,’ he said quickly.

  ‘Oh, I know you didn’t.’ replied Biggles casually. ‘I assumed it. Was I right?’

  ‘I’m not saying. I’m not saying anything. Why don’t you let me be?’

  ‘All right, we will,’ said Biggles gently, ‘but you realise you’ll go to prison for a pretty hefty sentence? They’re getting tough on traffickers, and the men behind it all go free. If you helped us, we could help you in return. It’s the big boys we really want — not you.’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ groaned Hinds. ‘That’s all I’m asking.’

  ‘O.K.’ said Biggles breezily, ‘but don’t forget my offer, and thanks for all the help you’ve given us already.’

  ‘I haven’t told you anything,’ the steward said with fresh alarm.

  ‘Oh, yes, you have. Rather a lot, as it happens. I’m very grateful, and I’ll make sure everybody knows about it.’

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t do that,’ whispered Hinds pathetically.

  ‘Why not?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘Because they’ll kill me if they think I’ve squealed, and I haven’t. It’s not fair.’

  ‘Fair or not,’ said Biggles, ‘that’s what I intend to say. I’ve a few friends in Fleet Street and it won’t take much to get a paragraph or two into the papers, saying how pleased Scotland Yard is with its heroin investigation and how co-operative a particular steward has been.’

  ‘You’d not do that?’ gasped Hinds.

  ‘Wouldn’t I?’ replied Biggles. ‘If you really want me to keep quiet, you’d better trust me, and start talking pretty quickly.’

  ‘So the bluff worked, did it James? I never realised that you were so unscrupulous. You’ll make a good policeman yet. Congratulations!’

  Air Commodore Raymond bared his somewhat battered teeth into the semblance of a grin and winked at Algy.

  ‘I had to give my word that not a hint of what we’ve learned will be betrayed to anyone,’ replied Biggles somewhat stiffly.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said Raymond quickly. ‘But why d’you think the blasted man’s so scared? Who’s he afraid of and why, when he’ll soon be safe inside one of His Majesty’s prisons?’

  ‘Good question, sir,’ said Biggles, ‘and I’ve a hunch that the answer is an important key to this whole business. Even when he broke down in the end, Hinds wouldn’t tell. But there’s no question but that he was totally convinced that if these people find out he’s betrayed them, he will die.’

  ‘Never heard such nonsense in my life,’ said Raymond jocularly. ‘You make it sound like something from the Mafia.’

  Biggles nodded silently. ‘It’s possible. We just don’t know, and Hinds didn’t dare say, who these people were. I’m not even sure he knows himself, but whoever they are they’ve put the fear of God into him.’

  ‘But good grief, man,’ exclaimed Raymond, ‘this is England.’

  ‘And we’re dealing with a full-scale international racket.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Raymond thoughtfully. ‘And what else did you learn from Hinds?’

  ‘Oh, quite a lot really, sir. It seems he did know the name of the bar all the time. It’s called the Jockey Club and it’s on the Via Veneto in Rome. Several other stewards are in the racket. He wouldn’t tell me who they were, but apparently they’ve been visiting the Club for quite some time and picking up the drugs for delivery later in New York. It’s all carefully worked out and on delivery they’re paid immediately through an account in Switzerland.’

  ‘And did he tell you anything about this contact that he had in Rome?’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘Not a great deal, I’m afraid. They would arrive there at a certain time, and when they left, the drugs would be waiting for them in a hold-all in the cloakroom. They’d get delivery instructions over the telephone back at their hotel.’

  ‘So they would never see a soul?’

  ‘Nobody, except for a man he called “the Barber” who was sometimes at the Club and who seemed to be a sort of strong-arm man for racketeers. Hinds disliked him, and described him in some detail. He’s bald, extremely fat, and the second finger of his left hand is missing.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Raymond, brightening considerably. ‘You’ve made a start. All we need now is proof so that we can smash this racket once and for all.’

  ‘And that’s what I intend to get, sir,’ replied Biggles, thrusting out his chin.

  Late next afternoon one of the few aircraft on the strength of the Special Air Police — a single-engined Proctor monoplane which had seen better days — landed at Rome Airport with Biggles and Algy at the controls. It had been an uneventful flight, and both the chums had found the Proctor rather a boring little aircraft after the fighters they were used to from the war. All the same, it was wonderful to be in the air again after so many bleak months without an aeroplane to fly, and the flight across the Alps had been magnificent. The prospect of Rome excited them as well — if only as a change from a wet London spring — and both chums were in the best of spirits.

  No sooner had they taxied the little aircraft off the runway than they were being given a true Roman welcome by an old friend, Brigadiere Grattapalli of the Italian Carabinieri, the official Roman representative of Interpol.

  “Ciao Biggles, Algy!’ boomed the Brigadiere, an impressive man with a silver-braided uniform and a magnificen
t handlebar moustache. He put his arms round Biggles and gave him an effusive hug, which Biggles found a shade embarrassing.

  ‘It’s good to have you both in Rome at last! I can return a little of that hospitality you gave me in London. Now, Biggles, listen carefully. I know a little trattoria off the Corso where you get the finest pasta in the whole of Rome. Not even my old mother makes it better. Then we can have asparagus, spring lamb, a bottle or two of good Barolo and perhaps some strawberries and a little cheese to follow. What do you say, old friend?’

  Biggles nodded just a trifle warily.

  ‘Marvellous, Luigi. But we’re not here on a gastronomic trip. We’ve work to do.’

  ‘Work?’ laughed the cheerful Brigadiere. ‘What is that old English saying? All work and no food makes Jack a small boy. Tomorrow we will work. Tonight we eat.’

  He had a big official car, and Biggles and Algy made their entrance into Rome in style, — at ninety miles an hour, with siren screaming. Biggles had had the sense to book a good hotel — at the top of the fashionable Spanish Steps, with a fine view of Rome below its windows. As he explained to Algy, ‘It’s most important to give a good impression to Italians. They call it figura, and they rather judge a fellow by the sort of figura that he makes.’ Certainly it appeared to work with Brigadiere Grattapalli, who seemed impressed and rather grateful when Biggles asked him in to have a drink with them.

  ‘Listen, Luigi,’ Biggles said, when the door had closed behind them and they were sipping their Campari sodas with the whole of Rome stretched at their feet. ‘I’m afraid this dinner of yours must wait. Tonight there’s business to attend to and we need your help.’