The hats which had served their purpose went over-board, and from the way Biggles moved Ginger saw that he had recognized them. He brought the jeep to a skidding stop. '
We've got him,' he yelled.
'Can you manage?'
'Yes! Get to the stick! Look out, they're coining!'
A number of men, strung out, were racing towards the machine; but they had too much ground to cover, and the nearest was still some distance away when, with Marcel inside, Ginger slammed the door. 'All clear,' he yelled.
The Halifax's engines bellowed. Ginger sank down. Thew!' he gasped. 'What a do.'
When wheel vibration ceased, telling him they were airborne, he scrambled to a side window and saw faces, upturned, sweeping past below. Turning to where Algy and Bertie, the first-aid chest on the floor beside them, were already at work on Marcel, he asked, anxiously, `How is he?'
Algy answered. 'Nothing serious, I think. Exposure and exhaustion mostly, I imagine. He hung on till he saw us and then collapsed.'
Ginger went forward to the cockpit and passed the information on to Biggles. He told him briefly what had happened on the ground. 'Where are we making for?' he inquired.
'Rangoon for a start. Then flat out for Marseilles. I'm hoping to beat Bollard to it. He said he didn't hurry. Get one of the others to work out a course for me as soon as Marcel is comfortable.'
'Can't I do it?'
No. You get in the tail and watch for a machine following us. That gang is good enough for anything and may still try to stop us. If you see another machine, warn me, and I'll dodge into the overcast.'
'Okay. It's a bit of a bind having to abandon our kit.'
'I'll cable the British Legation from Rangoon and ask them to collect and forward it. For a little while it looked as if we might leave more behind than our small-kit.' 'Are you telling me!' muttered Ginger, and went aft.
Five days later the Halifax touched down at Marginane, the big airport of Marseilles.
Bollard had not arrived, but Captain Joudrier of the Surete was there, in response to a signal sent by Biggles from Rome.
By this time Marcel was on his feet, although he was still shaky. His story was a simple one. From the start he had suspected the Ching Loo organization of being the worst offenders in the currency racket, because their profits, as he had ascertained in Paris, were out of proportion with their legitimate business. Which was why he had gone to the Pagoda Palace. There, he thought, he must have been recognized, for without warning he was seized and taken to Ching Loo's country house for questioning. He had in fact been tortured. By pretending to be unconscious he had managed to escape and had fled into the jungle. While seeking food he had been captured by the rebels, and by pretending to be in sympathy with them had lived with them for a while. The end of this came when the village in which he was hiding was captured by French government troops, who took him to Saigon. Unaware of the ramifications of the Ching Loo gang, he had, naturally enough, revealed his identity, expecting to be released. Instead of which he was accused of being a renegade and thrown into a punishment compound to await trial.
Knowing what his fate would be when Ching Loo learned of this, he had again escaped, on this occasion being wounded in the thigh by a bullet.
Hiding in a paddy field, he had, as was hoped, seen the Halifax, and realizing what this meant had made a desperate attempt to reach the airfield. Of the seizure of his own aircraft he knew nothing. The Ching Loo people had presumably taken it over for their own use. They needed aircraft for making contact with the rebels, with whom they were trading, an unsuspected piece of evidence that Marcel had discovered while he was with them. Of Bollard he knew nothing.
Bollard arrived on the aerodrome on the following day, by which time plans had been made for his reception. Only he and his partner got out of the Douglas, which was kept under observation. Carrying the portfolio and attaché-case he was allowed to pass through the barrier into the booking hall, where Biggles was waiting for him, the others watching from a distance. His astonishment at seeing Biggles was genuine, as was, no doubt, his greeting: 'What the heck are you doing here?'
'I came along to meet you,' answered Biggles. 'Let's go over here and sit down.'
'What's the big idea?' demanded Bollard, when they reached the seat.
'Simply this,' replied Biggles. 'You're on a spot, and I'd advise you in all seriousness to come clean.'
'I don't get it,' declared Bollard
'You will,' Biggles promised. 'Tell me, what have you got in that portfolio?'
'Papers.'
'What sort of papers?'
'How would I know? He said business papers.' 'Who said — Estere?'
Bollard hesitated. 'Yes.'
'Haven't you looked in the bag?'
'No. I can't. It's locked, I took his word for it.' 'You weren't given a key!'
'No.'
'What were you to do with the case?'
'Hand it over to Ching Loo's manager at the company's office in Marseilles.'
'Suppose we have a look inside?'
'Not on your life.'
Biggles shook his head. 'It's no use, Bollard. The Customs people have every right to search you, you know that.' He beckoned to Joudrier and the uniformed men with him.
Bollard went pale when he saw them. 'Okay,' he said helplessly. 'But if these papers are confidential there may be trouble.'
'What did Estere pay you for carrying the bag?' 'Fifty bucks.'
'And you take another bag back to Saigon when you go?'
'Sure.'
'And is that how you made your money on the side?'
'Yep. What's wrong with that? Estere wanted the papers home fast and I was coming with an empty crate.' 'What about the passenger you picked up at Saigon?' That shook Bollard. For a moment he was speechless.
'So you know about that!'
Biggles nodded. 'We were watching. Who was he?' Bollard smiled wryly. 'He didn't pay anything for the lift. He was just a Yank who wanted to get home.' 'A deserter ?'
'Sure.'
'Where is he now ?'
'I dunno. I dropped him off in Rome. He said he could manage from there.
He would rather not step out on French territory.'
thought it might be something like that,' murmured Biggles.
All eyes were now on Joudrier, who had taken the portfolio and was trying a succession of keys in the lock. Suddenly it flew open. Without a word he showed the contents. It was packed with bundles of bank-notes.
Bollard took it surprisingly calmly. 'Okay. I'm the sucker,' he said quietly. 'What do you want me to do?'
'Deliver this to the address as arranged,' answered Joudrier. 'We shan't be far away.'
That, as far as Biggles and his friends were concerned, was really the end of the Saigon adventure. They went straight on home, leaving the French police to clean up the business in their own way. This they did with their usual realistic thoroughness, a special force of police being flown from Paris to Saigon to make sure there was no mistake.
Today, the Ching Loo organization no longer exists. Estere is serving a long sentence in a French prison. Bollard, angry at the deception played on him, took sides with the police, and got away with a nominal fine. He lost his job, as was inevitable, but that didn't worry him overmuch.
There were, he told Marcel, other 'planes, and better places than Saigon.
2
THE CASE OF THE MODERN PIRATE
BIGGLES and his police pilots looked up from some illustrations of a new type of aircraft in the current issue of Flight as the door of the Ops Room opened and their chief, Air Commodore Raymond, walked in.
'Happy New Year to you all,' he greeted cheerfully. 'Same to you, sir,'
came back voices in unison. 'Have you come here merely to offer seasonal felicitations?' inquired Biggles suspiciously.
'No,' answered the Air Commodore, frankly. 'That's what I thought,'
murmured Biggles.
'I have come,' went on the Air Commodore, as h
e dropped into a chair, 'to tell you a story which supports my oft-repeated statement that modern crime, in actual fact, is streets ahead of imaginative fiction.'
'I'm ready to believe anything,' asserted Biggles.
'Don't be too sure,' warned the Air Commodore, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he were slightly amused. 'What a thief lifted on one occassion was no trifle that could be slipped into the pocket, or even thrown into the back of a car. The object weighed several thousand tons.'
Even Biggles looked a bit taken aback. Then a slow smile spread over his face. 'I see what you mean about imagination,' he agreed. 'What was this object?' 'A steamship.'
'You mean a launch.'
'I mean a three thousand ton, deep sea job, new off the stocks.'
Biggles' smile broadened. 'That is something,' he conceded. 'From shop-lifting to ship-lifting is quite a step. What did this smart lad do with the swag?'
'He lost it.'
'Where?'
'That's what we want to know.'
Biggles sighed. Àh! I get it. And this is where we start a little game of hunt the thimble round the globe.'
'That's the general idea; but it isn't quite as bad as that.'
'There is this about a ship, old boy,' put in Bertie. 'The bally thing is big enough to see. I mean to say, it isn't the sort of thing you could drop somewhere without somebody stumbling over it.'
'Yes. You've got something there,' allowed Biggles, sarcastically. He looked at the Air Commodore. 'Give us the gen about this astonishing effort. It promises to have the merit of being amusing.'
'The plot was certainly ingenious.'
'I presume the bloke wanted the ship for a particular purpose.'
'He wanted to be a pirate.'
Biggles laughed aloud. 'That's delicious. No doubt a lot of fellows would rather steer a ship on the briny than push a pen in an office, but it would take an uncommon amount of nerve today to hoist the Jolly Roger.
Who was this modern Morgan?'
'His name is John Sebastian Blake. I use the present tense because, for all we know to the contrary, he's still alive. It seems that when he was a boy he read a book about pirates, and forthwith determined to be one.
It's evident now that in this ambition he never wavered, although he said little about it. There was no need for him to do what he did because he was reasonably well off; so we can only conclude that he was urged by mis-guided romantic devilment to commit an act of folly for which he will have to pay - if he hasn't already paid with his life. But let me tell you the whole story in sequence. I must say it takes a bit of believing.'
The Air Commodore accepted a cigarette from Biggles and continued.
'Blake was born, and brought up, on the coast of Devon. He loved the sea and was never far away from it. His one recreation was messing about with boats, and by the time he was in his teens he was a clever and fearless sailor. At school he was a brilliant pupil.
An only son, his people doted on him, and no objection was raised when, on leaving school, he announced his wish to go to sea. That was only to be expected. He entered the mercantile marine as an apprentice and passed his examinations with a facility that must have been the result of natural ability combined with enthusiasm. So, for eight years, all went well. Whether all this time he was plotting the scheme he later put into practice, or whether it came in a flash of foolish inspiration, we don't know. But there was this about it. He knew all there was to know about ships, ships' papers and the like. For that very reason he should have known that his scheme was doomed to failure from the outset. Sooner or later, people wiser than he would be bound to catch up with him. Be that as it may, when he was twenty-six his father died and left him twelve thousand pounds. It was, presumably, for this money that he was waiting, in order to go "a-pirating" in what we may call a modern style.' The Air Commodore tapped the ash from his cigarette and continued.
‘I must tell you here that Blake had taken at least one man into his confidence — probably several. This fellow was an American sailor with a bad record, although whether or not Blake was aware of his real character we don't know. Nor do we know where Blake first met him. It may have been in some foreign port. All that matters to us is, this man, Nicolas Diaz, was, from the start, in the conspiracy to steal a ship. The first moves were not difficult. Blake knew the ropes. With his £12,000 he opened an office as a ship-broker. He then advertised for a modem well-found ship for a special charter job lasting six months. This charter, he stated, was to enable a party of wealthy Americans to do a cruise starting from England. Money was no object. He was offered several ships, and the one he chose was named Cygnet. These Americans, he said, were bringing their own captain — and that, of course, is where Diaz came in. While Blake was attending to insurance, stocks of provisions, cargo, and so on, Diaz was collecting his crew. Most of them were coloured men, lascars and the like, who had served in P. and O. liners. The cargo included a lot of paint, for reasons which will presently become apparent. There was also a small printing press. Payment for all this stuff was only made in part.
The balance would be forthcoming when the Americans arrived. Naturally, the firms concerned didn't part with their goods without making inquiries; but as we know, Blake's company had
£12,000 in the bank and that was considered good enough. In due course the Cygnet set sail.'
'What about these wealthy Americans who were supposed to be on board?'
asked Biggles.
'Blake had provided for that by saying he was to pick them up at Lisbon; and as a matter of fact the Cygnet put in at Lisbon, its arrival being duly reported to the owners in London. The voyage was continued, ostensibly for Cape Town. Somewhere off the African coast Blake called his crew together, in the old pirate tradition, and told them what he intended to do. If they would join him in this adventure, he said, they would all get treble pay and a handsome bonus. To this attractive proposition all fell in line except two, one an Englishman named Farrow, and a Scotch engineer named Macalister. These two took no part in what followed. Diaz wanted to kill them, but Blake wouldn't have that. They were merely put in irons when the ship was in port. Incidentally, this seems to have been the first rift in the lute between Blake and Diaz.
Other quarrels followed.'
'How did you learn these details?' inquired Biggles curiously.
'From Farrow, who was one of the few survivors of this fantastic adventure. But to continue. Passing near the reefs that make the coast of South-West Africa a mariner's nightmare when there's fog about, the Cygnet was stopped and a lot of gear thrown overboard — boats, lifebelts, and other stuff carrying the ship's name. The ship was painted black instead of grey, the white funnel became orange, and the name Cygnet, wherever it appeared, changed to Pauline. This included the ship's papers
— hence the printing press.
In a word, Blake, forgetting nothing, completely altered the identity of the ship. As the Pauline it went on to Cape Town where the cargo was sold for cash at cut prices. This put nearly £20,000 in Blake's pocket.
Another cargo was taken aboard, without payment being made, this time ostensibly for South America. Clear of port the name Pauline was changed to Corinthia, and the ship went to Brisbane, Australia, where again the cargo was sold for cash. Get the idea?'
Biggles nodded. 'Sounds like money for old rope.'
'That's what Blake must have thought,' agreed the Air Commodore. 'By this time the faked wreckage of the Cygnet, the boats and so on, had been found, and the ship was written off as a dead loss. But there's an old saying, truth will out. Some of the cargo that had been sold in Cape Town found its way back to England. How did these goods get to Cape Town if the Cygnet was wrecked? The insurance companies got busy and the end of Blake's jaunt was in sight. They learned that the goods had been unloaded from a ship named Pauline. There was no such ship on Lloyd's Register.
The description of the Pauline tallied with the Cygnet. Radio got busy, and every port in the world was wa
rned to be on the look-out for the Pauline. By this time, as we know, there was no Pauline; but there was a vessel at Brisbane named Corinthia that looked mighty like her. She had just loaded a cargo, which included bar gold, for England. Radio flashed again, and it was learned that there was no ship of that class named Corinthia. Blake picked up these signals, and realizing that the game was up, slipped his cable during the night and headed north. Aircraft soon found her, and watched her until the monsoon, bringing rain, put an end to air observation. The rain was followed by a typhoon, and the Corinthia, undermanned and not daring to run to any port for shelter, was soon in a bad way. Trying to get into a creek along the coast of North-East Guinea a tidal wave threw her high and dry on the edge of a mangrove swamp. That was the pay-off. Blake, realizing the ship was finished, had the gold, the safe containing the money in notes, and the food stores, put off, and informing the crew that it was now every man for himself, gave every member five hundred pounds in notes — with injunctions to keep his mouth shut. Finally he set fire to the ship.
The crew, forming parties as it suited them, dispersed. Farrow and Macalister, who had refused to accept the silence money, managed to slip away, and from cover watched Blake and Diaz bury their ill-gotten gains which of course they couldn't carry with them.'
'Quite a story,' murmured Biggles. 'What was the end of all this?'
'That's a tale yet to be told,' averred the Air Commodore. 'None of these people could have had the remotest idea of what lay between them and Port Moresby, in Papua, on the far side of the island. That's where they decided to make for. Only recently was the island crossed for the first time, and then by a specially equipped expedition comprising two white men who knew the country, a large force of armed police and seventy-five bearers. And even they, able to get a certain amount of food on the way, had a thin time.
As the crow flies the island is fifteen hundred miles long and four hundred wide. But a man can't travel as the crow flies. He is faced with crocodile-infested rivers, swamps, virgin jungle and warlike tribes of head-hunting cannibals. As if these obstacles were not enough, the spine of the country is a range of mountains up to sixteen thousand feet high and forty miles across.
53 Biggles Chinese Puzzle Page 5
