by W E Johns
“Smart guy, eh,” sneered Christophe.
“Let’s not waste time tossing bouquets to each other,” suggested Biggles. “This isn’t a question of being smart. It’s a matter of common sense. If anyone is behaving like a fool it’s you, for supposing you can get away with what you’re doing here. You say I’m a copper. Okay. Let’s agree you’re right. That means I was sent here to give this joint of yours the once-over. That, in turn, means several people—too big for you to handle—know I’m here. Wherefore, I say, before doing anything in a hurry let’s have a look at the picture from both angles, yours and mine.”
Biggles paused to let his words sink in. He could see from Christophe’s face that they had not been without effect. “By the way, who told you I was a police officer?” he inquired.
“A little birdie.”
“Hollweg.”
Christophe looked surprised. “How would he know?”
Biggles realized he had played a wrong card. Christophe sounded genuine. “It was just an idea. He looks the sort of guy who would spot a policeman, just as I’ve a nose that can smell a crook. Who was it?”
“I’ve got pals.”
Biggles smiled. “So have I. Let’s call it quits on that score.”
Christophe scowled. “Quits nothing. I’m the boss.”
“For the moment, maybe. We needn’t argue about that. Let’s get down to brass tacks. My friends over the way tell me you plan to set up a black empire here. I gather you told them.”
“Sure I told them. It ain’t no secret. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Go right ahead, if you’re big enough and go the right way about it. London is full of people who think they ought to be running empires. They stand up and say so. Nobody stops ‘em —while they stay on the right side of the law. That’s the point. It’s when people start making laws to suit themselves that the ship starts to rock. Hitler found that out. So did Mussolini. So did your great-granddad. But they all found it out too late. You’re heading for the same rocks. Carry on for your empire; but you won’t get it by interfering with other people’s property. That’s sound advice. Think it over.”
Christophe regarded Biggles with a curious expression on his face. “I don’t need your advice,” he announced. “What I want to know is, where’s Colonel Rayle?”
“Who told you about him?”
“Didn’t I say I had pals outside?”
“They’re not so wise, either,” said Biggles evenly. “Incidentally, they’ll finish by taking you to the cleaners. There isn’t any Colonel Rayle.”
Christophe stared, his dark eyes smouldering.
Biggles stubbed his cigarette and took another. “I created him in order to find my way here. I knew the moment you monkeyed with my compass. So did other people, because I was being watched. Now we both know how we stand how about you telling me who’s behind this racket.”
“Nobody. I’m the boss”
“You said that before. And I believe that’s what you think. But you’re wrong. I don’t know—yet—who your friends are although I’ve a pretty good idea; but if you think they’ll let you get away with this you’re a fool. Frankly, as I don’t think you are a fool, why not come clean so that we can get this crazy business tidied up? You can’t win, the way you’re going on.”
Christophe glared. “Who says I can’t?”
“I do. Surely your own common sense tells you that you can’t fight the British Empire plus the United States.”
“What can they do? This is Liberia, a free country, and anyone trying to grab it is liable to start something.”
“But that’s what you’re trying to do yourself—grab it,” Biggles pointed out. “You’ve already started something.”
“Sure I have, and what I start I finish,” snarled Christophe.
Biggles, realizing that he had pushed his point a little too hard, shook his head sadly. “ Have it your own way,” he said quietly. The trouble was, he thought, Christophe knew he was telling the truth, and didn’t like the look of it.
At this juncture a black came into the room and put a piece of paper in front of Christophe, who read the message. And as he read it his expression changed again. His dark eyes switched to Biggles’s face. “Seems like my pals outside know about you,” he remarked.
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“They’re sending somebody to have a little talk with you, mister.”
“Don’t forget that my pals will soon be along to have a little talk with you,” returned Biggles drily.
There was a further interruption when another man came in carrying a bundle. It was Ginger’s parachute. Throwing it on the floor, with eloquent gestures he rattled out something in a language unknown to Biggles.
Christophe’s expression hardened. “Who was in that plane with you?” he demanded harshly.
“A friend of mine.”
“Where’s he gone?”
“Home, I hope, to tell my chief where I am, and why.”
This seemed to break the control Christophe had so far exerted on himself. He sprang to his feet, mouthing: “If it wasn’t for somebody coming to see you I’d fix you right now. But it can wait. It won’t be for long. You try to get away from here and it’ll come to the same thing.”
“I don’t know that I’m in all that hurry to get away,” replied Biggles coolly. “I want to see what’s going on. In particular I shall be interested to see this pal of yours.”
Christophe sank back. Something in Biggles’s manner seemed to take the venom out of him. At any rate he resumed his earlier demeanour. He looked at Biggles with half-closed eyes. “Your friend has killed a man. Shot him.”
“He must have had a good reason.”
“That’s murder.”
“So you say. Murder’s a subject you probably know more about than I do.”
“You know what it means here to kill a man?”
“I know what it means in civilization. So will you, one day.”
“The rest of the tribe’ll be thirsting for your blood.”
“I shall do my best to see that they stay thirsty.”
Christophe may have felt that his arguments were getting him nowhere, for he signalled to the escort to take Biggles away. He tried one last shot. “My pals outside seem to know you plenty.”
“They’ll know me even better by the time I’ve finished here.”
“They seemed tickled to death when I told ‘em your name.”
“It’s flattering to know I’m so well known,” murmured Biggles, and went out.
He was returned to the wire enclosure well satisfied with the interrogation, which had, he thought, told him more than he expected. He went over to Tony Wragg and General Mander who were talking together. “These pople must have got private radio; they’re in touch with outside; do you know where the equipment is housed?”
Tony pointed to a hut some distance away. “On still nights I’ve heard an engine running over there. Once, when the door was open, I thought I heard Morse coming through.”
Biggles nodded. “Queer business. I still don’t quite get the hang of it, but of this I’m certain: Christophe is playing his own game. He’s getting assistance from outside. If I’m right in that then the people outside must be playing their own game, too. Which means that sooner or later one side will double-cross the other. Christophe is interested in himself. If, as I suspect, the Iron Curtain brigade are supporting him, that will only last as long as it suits them. Keep that in mind should anything happen to me.”
Tony started. “Are you expecting anything to happen to you?”
“Yes. Christophe is a bit sore. He knows I’m a copper. He said he’d bump me off right away but for the fact that some of his outside pals want to have a word with me.”
Tony looked upset. “Did that snooper Hollweg repeat what I—”
“He could have squealed, but I fancy Christophe got the gen over the radio when he reported that I’d arrived here. Anyway, he
’s rattled. Now I’m waiting for his pals to arrive, and their intentions, I fancy, will not be of the best.”
“The aircraft went off while you were in with Christophe.”
“I heard it.”
“It may have gone to fetch these so-called pals.”
“That’s how I’d worked it out. I’d better tell you this—in case. Keep it under your hats, but I’m not alone on this job. Three of my boys are around. One shouldn’t be far away, and two more, with a Halifax, should be in the offing. By gosh! It’s hot. I must get a drink.” Biggles walked towards the water tank.
General Mander followed him. “I’ve got a bit of news for you,” he said quietly. “In one way it throws light on this business, but in another it makes it more puzzling.”
Biggles took a drink from the tin mug provided for the purpose. “Sounds interesting, anyhow.”
“After you’d gone over to Christophe an idea struck me. One of my secretaries, Al Cox, is really a security officer. He only joined me recently. He was in the States up till a month ago, so knowing he’d know about it I asked him what was the latest news of the secret weapon I told you about. He knocked me flat by telling me that the whole outfit had been stolen—not only the instrument but the special plane that had been designed to carry it.”
Biggles stared incredulously. “The plane, too. How could that happen?”
The General made a gesture of resignation. “How do these things happen? How do the tightest secrets leak out? I needn’t tell you. It seems that the plane was standing on the airfield ready for a test flight when one of the aircraft hands, a coloured man, jumped the cockpit and flew it off. It hasn’t been seen since.”
For a moment Biggles was at a loss for words. “Then that must be the plane Christophe is using here!”
“That’s how I figured it, because if Russia had got the ship we should have known about it by now through our agents. Even if the ship went behind the Iron Curtain, and a copy was made, it wouldn’t be likely to get into the hands of a black adventurer like Christophe. Unless we’re up against a fantastic coincidence Christophe was the man who stole the ship.”
“The name of the black mechanic would be known, of course.”
“It was. His name, as shown on the squadron books, was Dessalines. Think that one over!”
“Dessalines—Dessalines—that name rings a bell,” muttered Biggles. “Hadn’t he something to do with Haiti, where, according to Christophe, his ancestor was Emperor?”
“The man who called himself Emperor Dessalines was the negro slave who led the revolt against the French in Haiti a hundred and fifty years ago. Dessalines was actually the name of his master, a French planter—Jean Jacques Dessalines. The new boss called himself Emperor Jean Jacques I. He didn’t last long. He was bumped off by Christophe, who succeeded him, and turned out to be an even more unspeakable thug than the man he had murdered.”
“Where does that get us?” murmured Biggles. “The man who pinched the plane was Dessalines. This fellow here calls himself Christophe. Are there two of ‘em in this racket or are they one and the same man?”
“That’s something I can’t answer,” returned the General. “If Christophe can pilot a plane then he may be Dessalines. If he can’t, then the Dessalines who stole the ship may be the man who’s flying it now. That means there’s two of ‘em in it. Maybe they got together and decided to follow their ancestors in the empire business by grabbing one of the most valuable weapons in the world.”
“They couldn’t do that on their own,” declared Biggles. “They had someone to help ‘em. They still have. Christophe admits that. The question arises, what are these pals hoping to get out of it?”
“I guess they wanted the weapon.”
“And now Christophe’s holding out on ‘em. If that’s right he must be crazy.”
“He’s not doing so badly,” the General pointed out. “The documents he’s got so far would be worth millions behind the Iron Curtain. I’d say he’s selling them and using the money to build up his army here.”
“That could be the explanation,” conceded Biggles pensively. “If it is, then Christophe won’t last long. What his so-called pals want is the weapon, and sooner or later they’ll get it. The wonder is they haven’t got it already.”
“That may not be as easy as it sounds,” opined the General. “Don’t forget the woods round this outfit are crawling with blacks in Christophe’s pay. A Black Curtain against the Iron Curtain, as you might say. The only way anyone, even a Soviet agent, could get in, would be by air. And with his weapon Christophe has control of the air. I don’t think it would worry the States if the weapon was destroyed. They’d have blueprints for another. But if it should fall into enemy hands—that would be a different matter. This is the worst crack we’ve had since we lost the atom bomb.”
“Yes,” said Biggles slowly. “You’re sure about these blacks in the forest.”
“We’ve seen ‘em. The chiefs, or witch-doctors, come in sometimes for pay or rations.”
“Do they carry rifles?”
“Haven’t seen any. Mebbe Christophe, not trusting ‘em, would draw the line at that.”
“Hm.” Biggles was thinking of Ginger, out there in the “woods” with natives whose orders seemed to be to kill any white men they met. The parachute had told Christophe that there had been a second person in the machine. A native, it was said, had been shot. That could only mean that Ginger had been in collision with the blacks. They, too, would know he was in the district. He had not been caught so far, reasoned Biggles, or Christophe would have boasted of it. All the same, it was clear that Ginger’s position was perilous in the extreme, and Biggles regretted bitterly that he had landed him in it. But then, when the plan was made, he could not by any stretch of the imagination have foreseen the situation that had arisen.
He was still pondering the position, wondering what he could do about it, when the unknown aircraft glided overhead towards the airstrip, across a sky now pink with the glow of sunset.
“I reckon that’s about the only way anyone could get in here,” averred the General. “If Christophe’s got the Liberian Government on his pay-roll, which wouldn’t be difficult, no one could get into this country on foot without a permit—and that wouldn’t be forthcoming.”
“That’s what it looks like,” replied Biggles, watching the jeep go out. “Thanks, General, for what you’ve told me. It clears the air a lot. It’s a relief to know the secret weapon is here, and not behind the Iron Curtain. My job now is to stop it getting there. If...” he broke off, staring hard at the returning jeep.
In it were two white men who had apparently just arrived in the plane. He knew them both, and was not particularly surprised to see them there. They were Iron Curtain agents. One, when he had been in collision with him in the West Indies, he had known as Zorotov.1 The other was his old enemy, Erich von Stalhein, one-time of the German Secret Service. So these, Biggles pondered, were Christophe’s, “pals”.
“Friends of yours?” queried the General, looking at Biggles’s face.
“I wouldn’t exactly call them friends,” returned Biggles, drily. “In fact, those two birds dislike me so much for more than once pulling out their tail feathers that you may have to finish this business without me.”
* * *
1 See Biggles in the Blue.
TOUGH GOING FOR GINGER
GINGER HAD BEEN CONTENT to leave Biggles to take care of himself, at any rate for the time being, feeling sure that the place to which he was being taken could not be far from the airstrip. What had happened was in accord with the plan, and an attempt at this juncture to follow the jeep might do more harm than good. That could be tackled when it became necessary. The important thing at the moment was to get in touch with the Halifax to let Algy and Bertie know what had happened. This was the arrangement, and it was for this reason that he had encumbered himself with the radio.
The ideal thing now was to find a place near at hand where the
Halifax could get down, but that was rather a lot to hope for. There was, of course, no question of it using the airstrip. If a landing ground could not be found he would be faced with the laborious task of sending a radio message in code. In any case he would have to use the radio to make contact, so realizing that Algy might be calling him he decided that the sooner he got the set functioning, the better. There was always a hope that Algy himself might find somewhere to land.
Already two snags had appeared in the programme, the first being the locality—Liberia. With the world so simmering with political tension any interference with a sovereign state would be bound to raise what Biggles had called a stink. This threw them on their own resources. Only in dire extremity would the British government come to their assistance.
The second snag was the alleged presence in the district of hostile blacks. It seemed to Ginger that there was something wrong about this. Wild animals were to be expected in what was well known to be big game country: but not wild natives. Leaving aside the unsettled tribes in the Mau-Mau district of East Africa it was news to Ginger that such conditions persisted anywhere in Africa. There were now few Africans who had not been in touch with white men, and co-operation rather than open hostility was the general rule. Natives there certainly were, not far away, for one had shown himself. Why should they be dangerous? What had they to gain from murder? No, thought Ginger, there was something phoney about that. True, the man he had seen had carried a spear; but in big game country that was natural. Most people, black or white, would carry a weapon of some sort. Ginger decided he would believe the story of active hostility when he had proof of it. All the same, common sense dictated a policy of caution. If he could avoid being seen he would.
