Biggles in the Orient

by W E Johns

  ‘Is he still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is something wrong with him?’

  ‘Plenty,’ said Johnny. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Stay there,’ said Biggles tersely. ‘I’ll be right down.’

  Biggles ran to the shed. Johnny was there, alone, bending over the sergeant, who was lying on his back on the floor, the position in which they had left him. One glance at the open mouth and staring eyes was enough.

  ‘He’s a goner all right,’ said Biggles in a hard voice. He shook his head. ‘I don’t get it. He was coming round fast when we left him. Well, there goes my hope of learning anything from him. I wonder why he died? You’ve had a look at him I suppose?’

  ‘Of course. Can’t find a thing. Not a wound, not a mark of any sort. Can’t make it out. He must have passed out in a drunken stupor.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do except send for the doctor,’ said Biggles.

  ‘I wonder if he did himself in, in a fit of remorse?’ suggested Johnny.

  ‘I imagine it is very difficult to commit suicide without leaving some sign of it,’ returned Biggles. ‘Go and fetch the M.O.*2’

  Johnny departed on his errand.

  After gazing at the body for a moment or two Biggles looked round the little room, his eyes taking in everything. Nothing had been disturbed. The room appeared to be precisely as when he had last seen it. The coffeepot and the tray were still there. He went to the pot and picked it up. It was empty. Thoughtfully, he put it down again. For a while he did not move from where he stood; then his eyes stopped on a tiny object that lay on the floor near the waste-paper basket. A quick step took him to it. Stooping, he picked it up. It was a round pellet of paper, pink. Slowly he unfolded it and found in his hand a slip of grease-proof paper, about three inches square. There was printing on one side. He read it: WITH THE COMPLIMENTS OF CHARNEYS LTD., LONDON. NOT FOR SALE. SUPPLIED FOR THE USE OF H.M. FORCES ONLY. With a frown lining his forehead he raised the paper to his nostrils. His eyes switched to the dead N.C.O. He went over to him, and dropping on his knees, looked into his eyes.

  There came a sound of quick footsteps and the M.O. entered, followed by Johnny. Ignoring Biggles the doctor went straight to the body. Silence settled in the death chamber while he examined it. After a while he stood up. ‘I’ll get him over to the mortuary,’ he said.

  ‘What do you make of it?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘I’d rather reserve my opinion till after the postmortem examination,’ replied the doctor.

  ‘There’ll be an autopsy?’

  ‘Of course.’ The doctor looked at Johnny. ‘He was in your flight, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you offer an explanation of this?’

  ‘We found him here, drunk, about three hours ago,’ answered Johnny. ‘We left him in the same state. He was badly cut up about the casualties to-day.’

  ‘Have you known him to get drunk before?’

  ‘Yes. I had him on the mat for the same thing about a week ago. But surely, Doc, booze doesn’t kill a man?’

  ‘In the East, in the sort of weather we’ve been having lately, it can induce heat stroke, which does. More often, though, the man runs amok. In that condition he often tries to commit suicide. You’d better go, now. I’m going to lock the door till the ambulance comes to collect the body.’

  They went out. The M.O. locked the door.

  ‘Where are you going now, Johnny?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘I think I shall push along to bed.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Biggles.

  ‘Mind if I tell Scrimshaw about this?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ answered Biggles. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. Good night. Good night, Doc.’

  Biggles walked on alone. He did not go straight to his quarter, but walked slowly to the sergeants’ mess, where he sent for the mess secretary and the barman. He took them outside.

  ‘Sergeant Gray has just been found dead,’ he announced quietly. ‘He looked as though he had been drinking. Did he have anything here before he went out?’

  ‘I didn’t see him at the bar,’ said the mess secretary—a warrant officer.

  ‘Yes, he came, but he didn’t stay,’ volunteered the barman. ‘I served him with an iced lemonade—I think it was. I know it was a soft drink because someone pulled his leg about it. Then he said he was going down to the sheds. I recall that because the flight sergeant told him it didn’t do any good to mope about.’

  ‘Did Gray seem at all agitated or upset?’

  ‘No, sir, I can’t say that he did. I didn’t take much notice of him, but from what I remember he was quieter than usual.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Biggles. ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’

  Deep in thought he turned away and went to his quarter. For a long time he sat on his bed, thinking, smoking cigarettes. Then he undressed and got between the sheets.

  Chapter 9

  Biggles Plays Fox

  The following morning Biggles was up early. Before doing anything else he called the hospital on the telephone to inquire about Angus. He learned that his condition was the same; he was still unconscious.

  Before he had finished dressing there was a tap on the door and Air Commodore Raymond came in. He looked worn with worry. ‘I’ve just heard about Sergeant Gray,’ he said in a tired voice. ‘This is awful. What do you suggest we do?’

  ‘For a start, sir, I’d advise you to ask the doctor to give you something to help you to sleep, or you’ll be the next casualty.’

  ‘How can I sleep with this horror hanging over my head?’ said the Air Commodore. ‘What do you make of this business of Gray?’

  ‘I have an uncomfortable feeling that we’re partly responsible for that,’ returned Biggles, without looking round. He was washing out his shaving kit.

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘We were too ready to take it for granted that he was drunk.’

  ‘Wasn’t he?’

  ‘No. At least, I don’t think so, unless he got the stuff outside somewhere. The indications are that he didn’t leave the station.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I made it my business to find out.’

  ‘If he wasn’t drunk, then what was the matter with him?’

  ‘Why waste time guessing? The M.O. is holding an autopsy. Presumably it will be this morning, since it is customary here to bury people on the same day as they die. We shall soon know the truth—I hope.’

  ‘There’s a rumour about the station that it was suicide.’

  Biggles flicked his tie angrily. ‘How did that start? Rumour—rumour—rumour . . . always rumours. If people only knew the harm they do. I’d like to know who started this one.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting that it was started deliberately?’

  ‘That wouldn’t surprise me. Rumour is a weapon in this war.’

  ‘You don’t believe this one, evidently?’

  ‘I prefer to keep an open mind until after the autopsy.’

  ‘If he didn’t die from natural causes then it must have been suicide.’

  Biggles put on his tunic. ‘It doesn’t seem to have occurred to you that it might have been murder.’

  ‘Murder!’ The Air Commodore looked aghast.

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘But what possible motive could anyone have for murdering a harmless fellow like Gray?’

  Biggles lit a cigarette. ‘The same motive that cost Moorven and the others their lives.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The man who was responsible for Moorven’s death wanted Japan to win the war. It may be that the man who killed Gray—if Gray was, in fact, murdered—was actuated by the same desire.’

  ‘But why Gray?’

  ‘You seem to forget that Gray was A Flight fitter; that he was the last man to look over the three machines that were lost yesterday, and that we were waiting to interrogate him. If Gray could have talke
d he might have told us something, something that might have put us on the track of the secret weapon. If that were so, then there was ample motive for killing him.’

  ‘I didn’t think of that,’ murmured Raymond.

  ‘Don’t breathe a word of it to anyone,’ adjured Biggles. ‘I mean that seriously and literally. It’s only my opinion. Let’s wait for the result of the autopsy before we start barking up what may turn out to be the wrong tree.’

  ‘I shan’t say anything,’ said the Air Commodore heavily. ‘I’ve another worry now.’

  ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘The rot has started at another station.’

  Biggles turned sharply. ‘Where?’

  ‘Darwin, Australia. They lost five machines yesterday out of one formation—all down in the sea. It’s clear that unless we can stop it, the thing will spread over the entire Pacific. We’ve got to work fast. Bigglesworth.’

  ‘You flatter me,’ returned Biggles curtly. ‘The whole Intelligence Branch has been working on this thing for weeks yet you expect me to produce results in twenty-four hours. Have a heart.’ He finished dressing and picked up his cap.

  ‘Where are you going now?’ asked the Air Commodore despondently.

  ‘To get some breakfast. It’s a good thing to eat, sometimes.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I’m going to take out a patrol.’

  ‘Good God, man! You can’t do that!’ objected the Air Commodore in a startled voice.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’re our one hope now. If anything happens to you —’

  ‘It’ll be worse for me than it will for you,’ interposed Biggles dryly. ‘The thing won’t come to us. We’ve got to find it.’

  ‘Are you taking the whole squadron out?’

  ‘No.’ Biggles smiled faintly. ‘I’ll leave some for to-morrow—in case.’

  Algy came in. He saluted the Air Commodore and looked at Biggles. ‘What’s the programme?’

  ‘I’ll tell you over breakfast. I’ll be across in a minute. Do something for me.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m smoking too much. Walk along to the canteen and buy me a packet of chewing-gum.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘What am I going to tell Darwin?’ asked the Air Commodore.

  ‘I may be able to suggest something later in the day,’ answered Biggles, putting his map in his pocket. ‘Meantime, I’ll push along.’

  At the door they parted, the Air Commodore returning to headquarters and Biggles walking over to the dining-room, where he found the rest of the squadron, including the new members, Johnny and Scrimshaw, already gathered, drinking coffee and munching biscuits from a large plate. Before joining them he rang the bell.

  Lal Din, smiling, obsequious, answered it.

  ‘Listen, chaps, this is the programme for this morning,’ announced Biggles. Then, noticing the steward, he said, ‘Bring me a packet of cigarettes.’

  ‘Yes, sahib.’ Lal Din went out.

  Biggles poured a cup of coffee, spread his map on the table and looked at it for a minute or two. ‘We’re going to do a sortie,’ he went on. ‘I shan’t be going myself. I’m not sending the whole squadron—just two machines. Johnny and Ginger can go. One reason for that is I don’t want a mixed formation. We’ll use two Hurricanes. You, Johnny, will fly X M, which leaves X T for Ginger. The others, for the moment, will have to stay on the ground. This will be the course. After taking off the two machines will head east for an hour. That will take them into the area where the machines were lost yesterday, and not far from where Angus went down. They will then turn north for fifteen minutes, after which they will return home.’ Biggles looked at Johnny and Ginger. ‘Is that clear?’

  They nodded.

  ‘All right, then.’ Biggles looked at his watch. ‘You will leave the ground in twenty minutes. Finish your coffee. There’s no immediate hurry.’ He looked round. ‘Where’s that man with my cigarettes? Ah! There you are, Lal Din. Thanks.’ Biggles took the cigarettes from the proffered tray and signed the chit.

  The steward went out.

  Biggles lit a cigarette and sipped his coffee. Then he beckoned to Algy and took him on one side. ‘Did you get that chewing-gum?’

  ‘Yes.’ Algy produced the tiny package and handed it over.

  Biggles glanced at it and dropped it in his pocket. ‘I’ve got a job for you,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Don’t say a word about it to anyone, either here or anywhere else. I want you to go first of all to the M.O. and ask him to give you something guaranteed to make a man sick. If he jibs, go to Raymond. But if you tell him it’s for me I think he’ll let you have it—he knows I’m on a special job. You will then borrow the reserve ambulance, and driving it yourself, take it to the practice landing-ground at Gayhar. That’s a little place among the paddy-fields about six miles north of here. You’d better push off right away, because I want you to be at Gayhar inside an hour.’

  Algy’s eyes had opened wide while Biggles was giving these instructions, but he did not question them. ‘Have you got a line on something?’ he breathed.

  ‘I think so,’ answered Biggles softly. ‘This is really an experiment to test a theory.’

  ‘What am I to do at Gayhar?’

  ‘Nothing. Just sit on the edge of the field and wait.’

  ‘Wait for what?’

  ‘For me. Push off now.’

  Algy went out, and Biggles returned to the others who—probably to conceal their real feelings—were making joking remarks about the two pilots detailed for the patrol. He sat down and finished his coffee. Some minutes later he again looked at his watch.

  ‘All right, you chaps, you’d better get along now. I’ll walk down with you and see you off. The rest will stay here till I come back. I may need you.’

  With Johnny and Ginger he walked towards the machines, which were being wheeled out on to the tarmac. ‘What a grand day,’ he remarked. ‘I think I’ll come with you, after all. I’ll fly a Spit.’

  ‘You will!’ cried Ginger delightedly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve changed your mind,’ remarked Johnny.

  ‘As a matter of fact I haven’t,’ returned Biggles evenly. ‘I intended coming all along.’

  Johnny stared. ‘Then why didn’t you say so?’

  ‘Because I am getting nervous of letting too many people know my movements,’ declared Biggles. ‘I want you two fellows to remember what you’re doing and keep your wits about you. The moment either of you feels anything happening to you, let me know—if you can.’

  ‘You mean, when we get into enemy country?’ queried Johnny.

  ‘No. We’re not going into enemy country. We’re going to stop this side of the lines.’

  Johnny pulled up dead. ‘Then what’s the idea of this sortie?’

  ‘The idea is,’ replied Biggles, ‘if either of you falls out I’d rather it were where I can get at you.’

  Johnny looked astonished. ‘But what can happen, this side of the lines?’

  ‘You may be surprised,’ answered Biggles vaguely.

  ‘But what about you?’ put in Ginger. ‘You talk as though something might happen to us, but not to you.’

  ‘If my guess is right, I don’t think it can,’ answered Biggles. ‘That’s enough questions. We’re not going far—only to Gayhar landing field. When we get there we shall land, and just sit in our seats for a couple of hours, leaving the engines running. Conditions will then be the same as if we were up topsides, only our wheels will be on the carpet. I’m afraid it’s going to be rather boring, but it may be worth it. Let’s go.’

  The three machines, two Hurricanes and a Spitfire, took off in formation, with Biggles heading due east for a time, as if they were bound for Burma. But as soon as he had satisfied himself that they were out of sight of the airfield he swung round, and in a few minutes had the flight circling over the practice landing-ground.

  Ginger spoke over the r
adio. ‘What’s that blood-wagon*1 doing down there?’

  Biggles answered: ‘I suppose somebody thinks it may be needed. That’s enough talking.’

  He continued circling for a little while and then went down. The three machines landed as they had taken off, and finished within a short distance of each other. And in that position they remained, the motors throttled back, the airscrews ticking over.

  After an hour had passed Biggles got out and walked over to Ginger’s machine. Having climbed up on the wing he asked, ‘Are you still feeling all right?’

  ‘Right as rain,’ answered Ginger.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ ordered Biggles, and went over to Johnny.

  ‘Are you still feeling all right?’ he inquired.

  ‘I’m getting a bit browned off, otherwise okay.’

  ‘Stay where you are.’

  Biggles returned to his Spitfire and resumed his seat in the cockpit.

  Another hour—a long, weary hour—passed. Again Biggles got out and went over to Ginger. ‘Still feeling all right?’

  ‘Never felt better,’ declared Ginger. ‘This is a slow game, Biggles. How long is it going on?’

  ‘Stay where you are,’ commanded Biggles, and went on to the other Hurricane, increasing his pace when he noted that Johnny’s head was sagging on his chest as if he were asleep. He jumped on a wing. ‘Johnny!’ he shouted.

  Johnny did not answer.

  Biggles touched him. Johnny lolled, limply.

  Biggles moved fast. He switched off the engine and dashed back to Ginger. ‘All right!’ he shouted. ‘Switch off. Johnny’s bought it. Come over and help me to get him down.’ Then, turning towards the ambulance he raised his arms above his head, beckoning. As soon as the vehicle started forward he ran back to Johnny’s Hurricane, and, with Ginger’s help, got the unconscious pilot to the ground. By the time this had been accomplished Algy had brought the ambulance to the stop, and had joined the little party.

  ‘Bear a hand, Algy. Let’s get him into the blood-cart,’ said Biggles tersely. He had turned a trifle pale.

  They lifted Johnny on to one of the stretchers.

  ‘Did you get that stuff from the doctor?’ Biggles asked Algy.

  ‘Yes. He says it would make an elephant heave its heart out.’