53 Biggles Chinese Puzzle

by Captain W E Johns

  'Are you pulling my leg?' asked Gaskin, with a touch of asperity as Tomkins went off.

  'I am not,' returned Biggles shortly. 'This is neither the time nor the place for jokes.'

  For ten minutes they sat and watched the flashes of Tomkins' photographic equipment.

  Then he returned.

  'We'll now go into the church,' said Biggles, rising.

  'The church!' exclaimed Gaskin. 'What in thunder has the church got to do with it?'

  'This,' replied Biggles succinctly. 'Whatever fingerprints Tomkins may have found on the handle of the shed, or on the spade, will tell us nothing, because we shan't know who made them. But if we go into the church, and take some prints from the front of the pulpit, we may get an idea.'

  'Are you talking about the parson?' cried Gaskin incredulously.

  'Only one man goes into the pulpit; so if the prints we find there are the same as those on the door handle, and the spade, we shall know who made them all, shan't we?' stated Biggles evenly. 'You see, since Ginger went to fetch you I've been to the village and spoken to the sexton. He's a part-time man — digs the graves and tolls the bell on Sundays. He hasn't been into that shed, or used the spade, since Mrs. Small died. His fingerprints, therefore, should be on them. The same prints should also be on the key of the shed, which, he tells me, hangs on a nail just inside the front door of the rectory, where he can get it when he wants it. If they're not, we shall know someone else has used it.'

  'Who else would want it?'

  'I can think of no one but the parson. Come on.'

  Biggles walked over to the massive door of the church. 'Open up,' he told Tomkins.

  The skeleton keys jangled as several were tried: then the door, with a creak of hinges, swung open. Biggles walked down the gloomy aisle. 'Go ahead,' he told Tomkins. 'You know what I want you to do.'

  After the warm air outside the interior of the old stone building struck chill; but the chill that ran down Ginger's spine was not entirely due to atmosphere. The inside of an empty church at night, with its solemn silence, and the names of people long dead on all sides, is likely to be depressing at any time. In the circumstances Ginger found it definitely uncomfortable.

  Tomkins' light flashed several times in the pulpit. Then he rejoined the others. 'Okay,' he said. 'No difficulty.'

  Leaving the building and locking the door behind them they returned to the stump by the grave.

  'Now compare your prints,' Biggles told Tomkins.

  'There's no need,' averred the fingerprint expert. 'I've looked at them under my glass.

  They were all made by the same man.'

  'That's what I expected,' said Biggles.

  'Just a minute,' expostulated Gaskin. 'What are you trying to get at?'

  'I fancy I've already got to it,' answered Biggles softly. 'Would you mind comparing these prints with those of your unknown burglar? You said you'd got some.'

  'Are you suggesting that . . . the parson . . . are you crazy?'

  'If you'll do what I tell you, you can answer that question yourself,'

  murmured Biggles.

  Tomkins held a torch while Gaskin, magnifying glass in hand, obeyed.

  Suddenly he seemed to stop breathing. For ten seconds silence reigned.

  Then, in a strange voice he said: 'You're right. In the name of all that's fantastic. The parson . . . a burglar!'

  'He's worse than that,' said Biggles grimly. 'I'm afraid he's . . . a murderer.'

  Gaskin stared, his jaw sagging. 'You mean. . .

  'He killed Small. Why, I don't know, but I could make a guess. Having killed him he was faced with the usual difficulty of disposing of the body. Then he had what must have seemed a brain-wave. He decided to bury it.' 'Do you know where?'

  'I think so.'

  'Where?'

  'There.' Biggles pointed.

  Gaskin blinked. 'But that's Mrs Small's grave.'

  'I think you'll find that it's also the grave of her son,' said Biggles slowly. 'The body shouldn't be very far down.'

  The Inspector drew a deep breath. 'We can soon settle that,' he declared.

  'We've got a spade.'

  'That's why I told Tomkins to bring it over.' Gaskin seized the implement.

  'This is no place for us,' Biggles told him. 'We'll wait for you at the car.'

  Twenty minutes later Gaskin joined them. He had recovered his composure.

  'You were right,' he said briefly. 'The gun that killed him was on his chest. I shall have to send for help and an ambulance. Looks as if you're going to touch the Courier for that thousand.'

  Biggles shrugged. 'I'd forgotten about it. As there's nothing more I can do here we'll drift along home.' 'Just a minute,' requested the Inspector. 'Would you mind telling me how you got on to this?'

  Not at all,' answered Biggles. 'It wasn't difficult. This morning we saw the parson looking for something in the field. This afternoon we found it

  - or at any rate, something somebody had lost. The mask. That's not a thing an honest man carries about with him.

  Dewsberry's trouble was, in disposing of Small's body he was working in the dark, and also, we may suppose, in haste. Anyhow, he dropped the mask and it got practically buried. I doubt if we should have noticed it if in his hurry he hadn't buried some of the flowers, too. They told the story.

  Queer - almost as if Mrs Small revealed the murderer of her son from the grave.

  'I thought that as the churchyard was on Small's beat he wouldn't pass it without looking in. Cigarette ends round this very stump suggested that he had. After that I think the story runs like this. You told us Dewsberry was popular with everyone. It followed that he would be a frequent visitor at the big houses round about. On such visits he would be able, without comment, to go to a bathroom or lavatory, unfasten the window, and make provision for his burglarious return later. He would also have ample opportunity for learning where the valuables were kept.

  Who would suspect this charming man? On his return home from Clagston Hall with the swag, rather than go near the village he cut across the big field to the churchyard, and so to the house. That's where he he thought he might have dropped his mask. He wouldn't want a thing like that to be found near the rectory. He entered the churchyard through this gate.

  Small was sitting here on this stump, brooding over his mother.

  Being in his dark uniform it's unlikely that Dewsberry would see him.

  'What happened after that must remain surmise. Small, of course, would see Dewsberry, but might not have recognized him, for it's hardly likely that the rector would be wearing a garment as conspicuous as a clerical collar. He would see a dark figure come over the stile carrying a bag, and at such a late hour he would either challenge him or follow him.

  Dewsberry, finding himself discovered, shot Small dead, and buried the weapon with the body, using the spade which was nice and handy in the sexton's shed. We can imagine the state he was in, so it needn't surprise us that he did the job clumsily. He then went home, satisfied in his mind, no doubt, that he would be the last man suspected of being concerned with Small's disappearance.'

  'Murder will out,' said the Inspector sententiously. 'What about the plane ?'

  'That problem shouldn't be difficult to solve,' opined Biggles. 'A reasonable supposition would be that Dewsberry the pilot, worked in with his brother, flying the stolen jewels to the Continent. Remember, he's had one conviction for smuggling.'

  'That's about it,' agreed Gaskin. 'Sounds simple, the way you put it.'

  Biggles smiled. 'That's what Columbus said when he stood an egg on end. I think that's all for tonight. See you later. Come on, Ginger, let's get home.'

  7

  THE CASE OF THE SECRET INQUISITORS

  IT was late one night when Biggles received an urgent phone call from his chief, Air Commodore Raymond, head of the Air Section at Scotland Yard.

  Entering the Yard in the unfamiliar company of its night workers he found the Air Commodore already in c
onference. The taller of his two companions was introduced as Sir Neville Baker, of the Diplomatic Corps; the other Biggles recognized as Major Charles of M.I.5, counter-espionage section.

  There was an atmosphere of gravity in the room.

  'Sorry to drag you out at this hour,' said the Air Commodore, indicating a chair. 'Charles will explain.'

  The Intelligence Officer turned thoughtful eyes on Biggles' face. 'It's a matter that has been worrying us for some time; but the latest development has created a crisis. Briefly, the story is this. For some time past there have been accidents and disappearances involving scientific and political experts of first-rate importance. We can no longer believe that these accidents are unrelated.'

  'Two of the men were diplomats,' put in Sir Neville.

  'The latest case is that of Maxwell Harrington,' resumed Major Charles.

  'A little while ago a few lines crept into the newspapers to the effect that as a geologist Harrington probably knew more than any living man about the mineral deposits of Central and Eastern Europe. That, of course, includes uranium. Harrington disappeared this evening between his hotel and Victoria Station. He was to have taken the boat train for Germany. In the normal course of events we shouldn't have known of his disappearance for something like forty-eight hours; but he had forgotten some documents, so a messenger was sent after him. He was not to be found. Something has happened to him.'

  'You mean, you believe he has been abducted?' queried Biggles.

  'Yes.'

  'If so, the people responsible are probably still unaware that he has been missed,' said Biggles.

  'Yes,' agreed Charles. 'In that respect we might be said to be a move ahead of them.'

  'What other cases of this sort have there been?' asked Biggles quietly.

  Sir Neville answered: 'They have all been comparatively unknown men, but vital brains behind the security of this country. The first was Pierre Lefebre, a brilliant young French-Canadian who was one of our confidential advisers on the Marshall Plan negotiations. After completing a secret mission to the States he went to Cornwall for a rest. Shortly afterwards his body was washed up at the foot of the cliff in the village where he had been staying. He was in possession of vital information that would be of paramount importance to a hostile power.

  But let us move to the more sinister part of the business. It puts abduction and murder in the shade.'

  'Would the victims think that?' asked Biggles.

  'That's just it. They can't think - those who have been left alive.

  Adamson, for instance.

  He directed radio propaganda. He disappeared and was found wandering in Edinburgh.

  He was completely out of his mind. He has yielded to treatment to some extent, but I doubt if he will ever be able to work for us again, poor fellow.'

  'Do you mean, you think we're up against a sort of scientific version of the Grand Inquisition ?' questioned Biggles.

  'What evidence we have,' replied Major Charles, 'indicates a technique so diabolical that it is difficult to assign it to human agency.'

  'All right, sir. Let's have the worst,' requested Biggles.

  The Intelligence Officer met his gaze unsmilingly. 'Very well. The worst case so far was that of Peter Bard, Adamson's assistant. He vanished, but turned up again in much the same way as Adamson. There was a difference, however. When we found Adamson his mind was an empty shell. When Bard turned up his mind had not only been emptied, it had been filled up again.' Major Charles paused, choosing his words carefully. 'His whole scale of values and beliefs had been reversed. In other words, he now has a fixed belief in the very propaganda he was supposed to be combating.'

  Biggles stared. 'But you can't change a man's raind to that extent - not unless he's willing,' he protested.

  Major Charles shrugged. 'Who knows what modem science can do to the human mind, given a sufficiently unscrupulous operator? You may recall the so-called confessions by obviously innocent men, in some of the European spy trials. This is evidently a development of the same theme.'

  'It's true,' affirmed Sir Neville. 'Apart from the danger to our own country, we owe it to humanity to destroy this evil thing.'

  Major Charles went on. 'There is money behind the organization. Take the case of Kin Yen. He was a young Chinese aerodynamic expert, temperamental, but of exceptional ability. He was negotiating with us for his own development of the helicopter, simple in principle but remarkably efficient. He disappeared. He's never been found. But we have secret information that a certain foreign power has under trial a prototype of the Yen Helicopter.'

  'What was the reason for bringing this case to the Air Police?' inquired Biggles curiously.

  'Because we believe that an aircraft may have been employed in the actual kidnapping,' answered Major Charles. 'Poor Adamson raved about a white aeroplane, and still cowers at the sound of an aero-engine. The body of Pierre Lefebre was so mutilated that the injuries were more consistent with being dropped from an aircraft than falling into the sea from a cliff.'

  Biggles stubbed his cigarette thoughtfully. 'Tell me this,' he requested.

  'Are you of opinion that the headquarters of this gang - or whatever it is - is somewhere in the British Isles?'

  The Air Commodore replied: 'I'm checking up on all airports.'

  Major Charles shook his head. 'That's too slow. Harrington is an old man.

  He couldn't hold out long against his abductors if they applied pressure.

  Something decisive must be done quickly.'

  Biggles toyed with another cigarette. 'I have a feeling that the villain in this case is more likely to be an individual than a foreign government.'

  'Then how do you account for what happened with the Yen Helicopter?'

  countered Charles.

  'Inventions can be sold to the highest bidder,' Biggles pointed out.

  'What easier way of making big money could there be than by kidnapping a man with a valuable secret, making him divulge it, and then selling it?

  Again, there may be a man at work who has a mania for power - a sort of second Hitler.'

  'You may be right,' conceded Sir Neville.

  'Suppose he is? Where is this conjecture getting us?' broke in Major Charles impatiently.

  'It narrows our field to an abnormal man working in this country,'

  answered Biggles. '

  Abnormality has its weaknesses - vanity, for instance. Obviously, these victims of kidnapping have to be held in a fit state for questioning -

  for a time, anyway. I mean, until they have divulged what they know.'

  'What exactly are you getting at?' inquired Major Charles.

  'I was thinking that it might be possible to plant a fake scientist. He would be in no great danger until he had released his special information.'

  Major Charles shook his head. 'I wouldn't ask any man to risk it. Where could we find such a man, anyway?'

  'You wouldn't have to go far,' replied Biggles evenly. They all stared.

  'Do you mean . . . you'd be willing to try it?' questioned Major Charles.

  'Yes.'

  'You realize the risk?'

  'Of course. But, as you say, we've got to do some-thing, and quickly. I'm not looking for trouble, but the boldest way is often the safest.'

  Biggles looked at the Air Commodore.

  I imagine you could give me a quick build-up in the Press, as the holder of a top secret?

  That should be enough to get me kidnapped. You might have me photographed in an unusual get-up, and hint that I have just escaped from behind the Iron Curtain with certain important information.'

  'It could be done,' agreed the Air Commodore pen-sively. 'It should work either way. If a foreign power is behind these kidnappings it would be desperately anxious to recover its secret. If it is an individual he would be interested in acquiring the secret for himself.'

  'Quite so,' agreed Biggles. 'All right. Get the story in tomorrow's papers. Then drop it, as if the official censor had
stepped in.'

  'How do you intend to keep in touch with us ?' asked Major Charles.

  'That, I'm afraid, would be difficult,' returned Biggles. 'This is a game that can only be played solo. I have one big advantage over the other victims. I do at least know what's likely to happen from the start. I'd like to see the documents covering the previous cases, and any photographs there are available of the people concerned. That's about all I shall need.'

  'You'll need a name,' the Air Commodore pointed out.

  Biggles smiled. 'What about one in the approved tradition ? I suggest Mr.

  Holmes.'

  'Very well,' agreed the Air Commodore grimly. 'We'll see if Mr. Holmes can solve the problem. Are you sure there's nothing else you need?'

  'Just a little luck,' answered Biggles, rising.

  Somewhat uncomfortable in a suit of old-fashioned style and with some slight alteration to his personal appearance (such as shaving his moustache), Biggles took his breakfast two days later at a West End hotel in which he had booked accommodation.

  The day proved to be a tiresome one, because as nothing happened he had ample time to contemplate the hazards of his undertaking. His portrait, with its untruthful caption, had appeared on the previous day in the lunch editions of the London newspapers. He occupied himself with studying reports and photographs relevant to the case.

  Evening found him in the hotel lounge glancing through the current issue of Flight; and it was while he was thus engaged that he heard a page-boy calling him under the name of Holmes. With a start he remembered that he was Holmes, so beckoning the boy over he took from him the written message that he carried. Ripping open the envelope, he read: '

  You are in danger. Do not use the telephone. Report at once to the office.' The message was unsigned.

  Biggles tossed his cigarette into the nearest ash-tray, strolled through the foyer and down the hotel steps. A nearby cinema was just emptying and anxious cries of 'Taxi' punctuated the roar of traffic. He hesitated on the kerb, looking to right and left. He appeared to be in luck, for almost at once a taxi pulled in beside him. The driver clicked down his flag. The door swung open. 'Where to, sir?'

  'War Office,' answered Biggles as he got in. As the door slammed he sat down, wondering what was going to happen.