He was soon to know. As the seat took his full weight there was a hiss as of escaping steam. So that was it, he thought swiftly, and then smiled faintly. His enemies were not very clever after all, for no agent on the alert would have fallen into a trap as obvious as the taxi.
With the sickly-sweet smell of anaesthetic gas in his nostrils he lost consciousness. . . .
When he opened his eyes again he could see nothing but a large white object. He discovered that he was lying down, and that he was moving.
Focusing his eyes with an effort, he made out the white object to be the figure of a nurse. Presently a bell clanged with a familiar note, and he realized that he was in an ambulance. Filtered sunlight streamed in through the frosted windows. The smooth singing of tyres on tarmac told him that he was on a main road. His tried to moisten his lips, which were painfully parched.
'Drink this.' The nurse bent over him with a medicine glass. Her manner was cold and dispassionate.
Biggles behaved as he thought he would be expected to behave. 'Where am I?' he asked. '
What has happened? Was there an accident?'
The nurse answered: 'Yes, an accident. You have been unconscious for some hours.
Please lie still.'
'Am I in an ambulance?' inquired Biggles.
'Yes.'
'Where are we going?'
The woman regarded him with something like cynical amusement.
'You are on your way to a private sanatorium.' She glanced at her watch.
'It is time for another injection,' she announced. 'Don't try to move or speak afterwards, or you will only distress yourself needlessly.'
Biggles did not protest. He felt the stab of a needle in his arm. It was followed by a curious sensation of being held down by invisible weights.
He closed his eyes.
Time passed. Biggles lay still, striving, not very successfully, to retain his faculties, for the drug had deprived him of the power of speech and movement. He was conscious, but only just. As in a dream he knew that the ambulance had stopped. The doors were opened. The stretcher on which he lay was eased out. Vaguely against the sky loomed a building of familiar design. It was, he realized with an effort, an airport control-tower.
With a feeling of unreality he watched himself being taken through the routine of an outgoing passenger. He was wheeled across the tarmac. A white fuselage, carrying a conspicuous red cross, came into his field of view. A man in a leather flying-jacket was waiting.
'This is Doctor Kahn,' said the nurse softly. 'He flies his own ambulance plane. He is a good pilot. There's no need to worry.'
The doctor followed the stretcher into the cabin. Bending down he took Biggles' pulse, at the same time staring into his eyes. Biggles felt a thrill of loathing. The man's fingers felt like steel encased in a spongy substance.
'Do you suffer from air sickness?'
The doctor's voice had the same intense yet mechanical quality as that of the nurse. 'You can indicate an answer in the affirmative by closing your eyes. Don't try to speak.'
Biggles kept his eyes open. He did not suffer from air sickness.
'Good,' said the doctor. 'We have everything for our patients' comfort.'
He dropped Biggles' wrist. 'You are in excellent health, so you will be yourself by the time we arrive.'
He left the cabin, and his place was taken by the nurse. The aircraft vibrated as the engine came to life. It taxied out. A minute later it was in the air.
To his great satisfaction Biggles felt his strength re-turning as the effects of the drug wore off. Altitude may have had something to do with it. Anyway, he was soon able to think more clearly, and by the time the landing wheels bumped the power of movement had returned. He was content with the way things were going — not that there was anything he could do for the time being.
The nurse helped him from the cabin, for he was still shaky. There was a strange whispering in his ears. He thought at first that it must be the after-effects of the drug; but then a salt breeze whipped his face and a gull cried plaintively. It was the sea. He could see it which-ever way he looked. There were no trees, only heather in undulating folds, rising on one side to a hill. He supposed that he was on an island, and the heather suggested that it was somewhere off the coast of Scotland.
The nurse propelled him towards a stone-built, castle-like building, dilapidated, and obviously of great age. It was screened by a high wire fence. Near it was a shabby wartime temporary hangar. As they passed it a man came out and walked towards the plane. Looking at him, Biggles saw a round, expressionless face with slanting eyes. He recognized the missing inventor, Kin Yen.
The doctor waited at the fence. With him was a man dressed as a hospital orderly. 'I'll take over now, Sister,' said the doctor.
They entered the castle, and at the same time stepped into the anaesthetic-smelling atmosphere of a hospital. The door closed behind them with an unpleasant thud of finality.
'A necessary precaution for a private asylum,' said the doctor gravely.
'Are you one of the patients?' inquired Biggles.
Àh! So you have a warped sense of humour. We shall have to correct that,'
murmured the doctor, walking on.
He led the way to a chamber that was something between an office and a consulting-room. The most conspicuous furniture consisted of a chromium desk and what appeared to be a dentist's chair. The arms were fitted with leather straps. A rubber gag hung from the headpiece.
The doctor took off his flying-kit and hung it in a steel cupboard. 'Make yourself comfortable, Mr Holmes. You'll find the chair not unpleasant -
as long as you don't try to exert yourself.' He seated himself at the desk. Two male attendants appeared from an inner room.
Suddenly the air was stabbed by a blazing white spotlight. The doctor put on a large pair of dark glasses.
Biggles took up an attitude which he thought was appropriate to the situation. 'What is this all about?' he demanded. 'I don't understand. I was told there had been an accident.
What's going on here?'
'A perfectly natural question, Mr Holmes,' was the reply. 'I can answer in a few words. I arranged for you to be brought here because I am interested in the same subject as you, notably the mineral deposits of Eastern Europe.'
'Is that all?' Biggles smiled lugubriously. 'Why go to so much trouble about it? I imagine the information I possess is worth something. After all, everybody needs money. I don't know what power you represent, but I'm always anxious to be on the winning side —
which means that I'm willing to co-operate, for a consideration.' He sat in the chair and indicated the attendants. 'There's no need for all this theatrical stuff.'
The doctor dismissed the attendants with a wave.
'How wise you are, Mr Holmes,' said the doctor smoothly. 'But it happens that the organization I represent is not a nation. I stand for a master-group that is interested in revolution in this country. But don't underestimate our strength. It is the strength of supreme intelligence.
We do not normally pay for our information.'
'But doesn't that kill the goose that lays the golden eggs as far as their future usefulness is concerned?' questioned Biggles.
The doctor toyed with a gold pencil. 'Not necessarily. We are on the fringe of a field of power undreamed of by ordinary politicians. Already we can empty a man's brain and fill it with ideas of our own choosing.
Imagine the possibilities. Certain powers are of course interested in our enterprise.'
'Such as the one that bought the plans of the Yen helicopter,' suggested Biggles.
'Oh, so you know about that?' The doctor dismissed the matter with a wave. 'A mere side-line; a necessitY to keep us in funds. We need a certain amount of money, of course.
Mr Kin Yen has, it happens, proved himself useful here as an aircraft mechanic. He has a partiality
for opium. That is the only reward he expects for his services.
Naturally, we ha
ve other means of persuasion. They're quite subtle. Come and see for yourself.' Switching off the spotlight, the doctor led the way to a corridor that brought them to a lift.
'The human brain can be likened to a beautiful but delicate vase,'
resumed the doctor as they went up. 'First we learned to empty it. But instead of leaving an empty shell, as in our earlier experiments, we can now refurnish it with whatever ideas we think will be most useful.' He stopped before a door. 'In here we have a man named Harrington in the preliminary stages of being submitted to the Superior Will. The secrets he will give us will provide us with enough money to run this establishment for a further twelve months.
In view of his age, I'm afraid the final stage of re-education will scarcely be worth while.'
The doctor opened the door.
With an involuntary tightening of the muscles, Biggles saw, between two white-robed attendants, an old man whose hair gleamed silver under blazing spotlights.
'Tonight he will be allowed to rest,' murmured the doctor. 'Tomorrow I shall extract his secrets.'
When, a few moments later, the doctor took him back to the consulting-room, Biggles was cold with suppressed anger. But that did not prevent his brain from working smoothly. He had an idea. He was, he realized, dealing with a man who, if not mad, was on the borderline of insanity.
And, as he had suspected, his driving force, as with most seekers after power, was vanity. He looked around. They were alone.
'I gather you enjoy your work?' he remarked, seating himself uninvited in the sinister chair.
'It is for the master-group,' answered the doctor casually. 'Eventually we shall control the world. We have no feelings beyond that.'
'That infernal drug of yours has made me thirsty,' said Biggles, changing the subject. 'Ain I allowed to have a drink?'
'Certainly. Wine or water ?' inquired the doctor, picking up an intercommunication telephone.
The doctor gave an order over the phone in a language unknown to Biggles.
Almost at once a little ape-faced man came in with a glass of water which he put on a stand at Biggles' elbow. Having done this he retired silently.
'Aren't you afraid of being left alone with me?' queried Biggles, as he picked up the glass.
The doctor frowned. 'Afraid? Control, my dear sir, is always a matter of superior intelligence.' He took from a drawer of his desk what appeared to be a fountain-pen. 'One spot of the chemical contained in this cylinder and you would know nothing for a long time,' he boasted.
Biggles took a gulp of water. The next second he had stiffened, gasping.
The glass crashed on the floor as his hands flew to his throat. His head sagged forward. 'You devil!' he panted. 'You've poisoned me.'
'The fools!' snapped the doctor, and, springing to his feet, tried to catch Biggles as he fell.
In a flash Biggles had him in a stranglehold, one hand twisting the wrist that held the weapon. It fell with a clatter. Biggles snatched it up, and turning it on the gasping doctor depressed the switch. There was a hiss like that made by a soda-water siphon, and the struggling figure collapsed. Breathing heavily from his efforts, Biggles dragged the man into the chair, strapped
him in and threw a towel over the pallid face, having first removed the dark glasses.
He fitted the glasses on his own face. Then, moving swiftly, he went to the cupboard and took out the doctor's flying-kit. With the secret weapon still in his hand he walked to the door and looked out. Seeing no one, he strode on to the front door. An attendant, seeing him coming, hurried to open the gate in the fence. The air ambulance was still standing outside the hangar, with its mechanic, Yen, leaning against the fuselage as if waiting for orders.
'Get in,' Biggles told him curtly.
The Chinaman obeyed without question. Biggles climbed into the pilot's seat. Three minutes later he was in the air.
The sun was sinking into the Atlantic when the ambulance plane returned.
A man in a white coat raced towards it. 'Doctor, there has been an escape!' he shouted. 'I've switched on the high-tension in the fence -'
By that time Biggles had jumped down. He held an automatic. 'Switch it off again,' he ordered crisply.
The man's mouth fell open in dismay as the aircraft disgorged a load of armed police officers. Air Commodore Raymond was among them. He joined Biggles, who ran on to the building.
Policemen poured down the corridors.
'All right, Bigglesworth, we can leave the rest to them,' asserted the Air Commodore.
As they watched, policemen began to emerge with their prisoners. The doctor and the nurse were among them. A police Auster aircraft was just landing.
'There's no need for you to stay if you don't want to,'
the Air Commodore told Biggles. 'It'll take some time to clean up this place. I expect I shall be here all night. More than anything I'm concerned with any victims of this bunch of lunatics, who may be here.'
'Well, if you can manage without me, I'll get along,' answered Biggles.
'That will be Ginger just landing in the Auster. He'll take me home. I've had a pretty hectic day. I'll let you have a full report tomorrow.'
'Good enough,' agreed the Air Commodore. Lighting a cigarette, Biggles walked towards the Auster.
8
OPERATION STARLIGHT
AT ten thousand feet the Air Police Auster droned a lonely course across the indigo bowl that was the earth. Above, the midnight sky was spangled with a million stars. Below, the world that no longer sleeps was studded with a million sparks of light.
At the controls, on a seat-parachute, his face ghastly in the reflected glow of the instrument panel, sat Air-Detective Inspector Bigglesworth.
Beside him at the dual controls, half-masked with high frequency radio equipment, was his second-in-command, Police Pilot Àlgy' Lacey. Behind were the two other members of the Special Air Police, `Bertie' Lissie and
'Ginger' Hebblethwaite, also wearing parachutes. No one spoke.
Expressions were grim, for upon the outcome of the night's work, they had been warned, might depend the career of their chief, Air Commodore Raymond at Scotland Yard.
All were indignant at the criticism being voiced by those in high places who seemed unable to appreciate the difficulties of preventing aircraft from being used for those unlawful transactions which world conditions and high profits invited. H.M. Customs and Excise complained of illegal movements of diamonds, furs and drugs. The Currency Control Commission alleged the unauthorized transfer of money to and from the Continent.
Security Intelligence suspected that secret agents were coming and going without passport examination.
Radar stations were reporting unidentified aircraft, mostly by night.
Biggles did not dispute this. He knew through continental colleagues that every country in Western Europe was faced by the same problem. He also knew the limitations of aircraft in counter measures. A suspicious vehicle on the road can be halted and examined. A ship can be held and searched. But an aircraft cannot be stopped without employing methods which, common in war, would be held inexcusable in peace time. To maintain a constant patrol over every coast and frontier was out of the question.
Biggles had received permission to employ unorthodox methods if he wished, and these, with the cooperation of radar stations, were now in action. For a week he had drawn blank. This was his last chance, for ground forces protested they could not stand by indefinitely.
'Here we are,' announced Algy sharply. 'Okay. Go ahead,' he told the distant radar operator. For some ten seconds he Listened. Then, half turning to Biggles, he went on: 'Unidentified aircraft gliding in over Suffolk coast. Course, west-north-west. Height eight thousand. No navigation lights. Ignores signals.'
Biggles pulled the Auster round, nose down, throttle wide open for speed.
Algy spoke again. 'Northerly - northerly - hold it. Should intercept at forty miles.'
Three minutes passed. 'Bandit changing course -
westerly,' report Algy, still taking signals. `He's losing height.'
Biggles was staring ahead, eyes scanning the sky for the glow of an exhaust, which alone betrays a darkened aircraft at night.
'Getting close,' said Algy tensely. 'There he is — half left. Going down.'
'I'ye got him,' answered Biggles, swinging round and side-slipping steeply to get in the blind spot of the objective aircraft. 'Looks like a helicopter. Hello! There go the landing lights. Someone was expecting him. I make 'em on Brandon Heath. See the Brandon-Thetford road. Plenty of room to get down there. Take over. Give Raymond the pin-point. Glide on as far as you can to give us a chance to get at 'em before they hear you.
Hold her steady.'
Biggles raised the flap seat and moved aft. 'This is it,' he told Ginger and Bertie. 'I'll go first. Follow fast. We're down to two thousand so don't hold it too long.' Opening the escape hatch he gripped the ring of his parachute and dived into the void.
Ginger and Bertie followed in quick succession.
As he plummeted through space, Ginger saw the landing light go out. He counted five, pulled, and a moment later was floating in space, gathering himself for the shock of landing. He fell, but was up in an instant, slipping his harness. Fifty yards away another brolly was collapsing. A dark figure broke from it. They met. It was Bertie.
Racing over rough grass and heather towards the sound of an idling aero engine they overtook Biggles and hurried on together, keeping the silhouette of the helicopter between them and a house beyond. When they reached it a man in the cockpit was handing out parcels to two men on the ground.
'Stand still,' ordered Biggles crisply. 'We're police -'
There was a shout of alarm and a curse. A gun spat. Biggles returned the shot and one of the two men fell. The other started to run. Bertie tripped him. The helicopter's engine roared. 'Stop him,' rapped out Biggles, and Ginger emptied his gun at the rotor blades.
Splinters flew. The engine, relieved of its load, raced, forcing the pilot to switch off.
Biggles ordered him to get down, and the man, having no means of escape, complied. He glanced at the bundles on the ground and shrugged. reckon Alex tipped you off about -'
53 Biggles Chinese Puzzle Page 14
