Biggles in the Orient

by W E Johns

  ‘So for my second experiment I came here,’ he continued. ‘It confirmed my opinion. Officially, we are a communication squadron, so nobody—I mean the saboteur—would expect our Mosquito to suddenly take off and head for Burma. Again I got away with it—for that very reason. Angus’ arrival on the scene was not in my programme. He came up the river on his own account. But mark this! I understand there was some discussion in the mess as to who was going to escort Tug. This must have been overheard by the saboteur, who had time to sabotage Angus’ machine before it took off. All this was supporting my theory.’

  ‘But Tug Carrington went back up the river,’ reminded the Air Commodore. ‘Why was his machine not tampered with?’

  ‘For the very obvious reason that he did not take a machine from this station. He flew a seaplane, and had to go some distance to get it. The saboteur, even if he knew about it, would have no time to get to it.’

  ‘Of course, I’d overlooked that,’ said the Air Commodore.

  ‘Sergeant Gray, poor fellow, unwittingly provided the next link in the chain,’ resumed Biggles. ‘And a startling one it was. I told you that when I landed in the forest beside Moorven’s crash I found nothing. That was not strictly true. I did find something, but at the time it suggested no sinister purpose. In fact, I threw it away and thought no more of it. It was a little square of pink paper, bearing the name of a British confectionery manufacturer. When I found just such a piece in A Flight shed, when Sergeant Gray was there, drunk, as we thought, I began to wonder. There was something else in that room that aroused my suspicions. It was a coffee-pot. On the occasion of my first visit I sent for coffee. Gray drank it all.

  ‘When I went back, hours later, the coffee-pot was still warm. I could find only one explanation of that. Somebody had been to Gray with a fresh pot of coffee. Gray was hardly in a state to fetch it. Had he wanted it, it is far more likely that he would have gone across to the canteen. The person who took that coffee, took it because he wanted an excuse for going there, in case he was seen. He had good reason for caution. He went to kill Gray, for fear Gray would talk. Gray, had he lived, would have insisted that he was not drunk. He could have proved it. This would have led to the question, were the other cases of drunkenness on the station—there had been some, you know—really that, or were the men the victims of a mysterious malady? The saboteur did not want that sort of talk, we may be sure. With one thing and another I began to get a glimmering of the truth. You see, after Johnny told me that on the day Moorven was killed they had swopped planes, I suspected that it was the pilot, not the aircraft, that was being tampered with.

  ‘Now let me come to my first flight of this morning. I set a trap. In the mess I briefed two machines and two pilots to go out over Burma—Ginger and Johnny. I said nothing about going myself, although I intended going.’ Biggles paused to smile. ‘I wanted the saboteur to work on the other two machines, but not on mine. Actually, there was very little risk, because I had not the slightest intention of letting Johnny and Ginger go anywhere near Burma, nor, for that matter, be in the air long enough for the secret weapon to work. We landed at Gayhar, and sat there on the ground with our engines running. Things did not pan out as I expected them to, and I don’t mind admitting that I got a shock when Johnny passed out. I thought it would be Ginger. Bearing Sergeant Gray in mind I was prepared to find one of them in a state resembling drunkenness, but actually in a condition of coma, the result of being drugged.’

  ‘Hey! I like that,’ cried Johnny. ‘How did you know we weren’t going to be poisoned?’

  Biggles laughed at Johnny’s indignation. ‘Had the stuff been poison it would not have been necessary to murder Sergeant Gray, would it? No, he would have died anyway. I was pretty sure that the stuff was a powerful narcotic rather than a poison. There were strong arguments against the use of poison, as I shall presently explain. I had worked it out, from the discovery of the pink paper, that the dope was being administered in chewing-gum, which would occasion no surprise if it were found in an aircraft. It would be a simple matter to get the stuff into machines briefed for flights over enemy country. Judge my chagrin and alarm when Johnny, after we brought him round, swore that he had not touched any chewing-gum. Nor, in fact, was there any in his machine. I was flabbergasted. It looked as if I was wrong. But when I inspected Johnny’s machine, and found on the floor the wrapping of a bar of chocolate, I knew I was right. This wrapping-paper, I may say, bore the same name as that on the chewing-gum wrapping—Charneys, London. Only the method had been changed. Chocolate was now being used instead of gum. I found a piece of the same brand of chocolate in Ginger’s machine; as it happened, he hadn’t touched it. If he had, he would have passed out, too. If Johnny had had a grain of common sense he would have told me that he had eaten chocolate.’

  ‘I like that,’ protested Johnny vehemently. ‘I’m not a thought reader. You were talking about chewing-gum.’

  ‘It’s all confectionery,’ declared Biggles. ‘The next question was, why had the saboteur suddenly switched from gum to chocolate? That puzzled me for a little while. Then I hit on what I think is a reasonable explanation. The saboteur had realised that Johnny always got back because he didn’t like chewing-gum, so to get him he baited his machine with chocolate. And he got him. Had Johnny gone out over Burma in that machine he wouldn’t be here now.’

  ‘But what about your machine, old boy?’ put in Bertie. ‘Wasn’t there any chocolate or chewing-gum in that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because, my poor chump, I gave no indication that I was going on the sortie. The only person who knew I was going, was me. I took good care of that. Supposing that I was staying on the ground, the dope merchant did not bait my machine. Only machines briefed for operations received that sort of attention, otherwise the wrong people might have got hold of the bait, with awkward consequences. That, of course, is what happened to Sergeant Gray. Johnny never touches gum. A week ago he came back with a piece of gum still in the pocket of the aircraft where it had been planted. Gray, looking over the machine, as he was bound to, found it. He chewed it, and passed out. Everyone thought he was drunk. He wasn’t. He was doped. The same thing happened yesterday. I would wager that when Johnny came back from the sortie when Moorven and the others were lost, he had a piece of chewing-gum on board. Am I right, Johnny?’

  ‘Now you mention it I recall seeing a packet.’

  ‘Exactly. Gray found it. The same performance was repeated. Dash it, poor Gray almost told us what had happened. He said he had been sitting there chewing the thing over, but no one took him literally. He became unconscious. It was known that we were waiting for him to come round to ask him questions. That hadn’t happened on the previous occasion. It was realised that he might mention the chewing-gum to us. So he was quietly murdered. We now know why Johnny and Scrimshaw always came back. Neither of them touched chewing-gum.’

  ‘What a devilish scheme,’ muttered the Air Commodore.

  ‘But horribly effective,’ returned Biggles. ‘What has been happening is now plain enough. A pilot takes off. Sooner or later he discovers a piece of chewing-gum in the aircraft. He chews it. The narcotic takes effect. By that time it is too late for him to do anything about it. Johnny has told me how everything suddenly swam before his eyes. He lost the use of his limbs. The machine falls, crashes, and the pilot is killed. Very simple, but as I just said effective. The mysterious interval of time between the falling out of the machines is now explained. Naturally, the time when a machine went down would depend on when the pilot found the dope. Yesterday, three pilots died like that. Moorven was the first to find the gum. He was the first to fall. After he had put a piece of the stuff in his mouth he dropped the wrapping paper on the floor, where I found it.’

  ‘Frightful,’ muttered the Air Commodore.

  Biggles went on: ‘To some people, this putting stuff in the cockpit of an aircraft might seem a haphazard sort of scheme. Actually, it was more
likely to succeed in its purpose than a bomb. One would notice a bomb—but not a piece of chewing-gum. The more you think about it the more devilishly cunning it appears. Nothing could look more natural than gum, nothing more harmless. Scores of pilots chew gum regularly when in the air; we’ve all done it and we’ve all left odd packets in our machines. On a long flight a fellow would be almost certain to find the stuff: and having found it, ninety-nine out of a hundred would sample a piece. Of course, there would be occasional exceptions, like Johnny and Scrimshaw. I’m sorry about Scrimshaw. In his fury he lost his head–practically threw his life away. Yet even the exceptions like Johnny and Scrimshaw wouldn’t escape indefinitely. As we have seen, chocolate could be substituted for gum. If it turned out they didn’t like chocolate, no doubt in course of time they would have been tempted with biscuits, popcorns, or acid drops. Sooner or later their turn would have come.’

  ‘A grim thought,’ put in the Air Commodore.

  Biggles continued: ‘The devilish scheme had one big snag. Once put into action, it could not be allowed to fail. Had the dope got into wrong hands people would have started falling about all over the airfield, and the game would have been up. There is no doubt that this did happen once or twice. When I first arrived I was told that there had been several cases of drunkenness. These men weren’t drunk; like Gray, they were doped; but who was to guess it? But too much of that sort of thing would have led to questions. We can see why dope was used instead of poison. Had these men, who were supposed to be drunk, died, there would have been trouble. That would have meant an investigation and the scheme might have been discovered. The aftereffects of a narcotic are not unlike those of alcohol—which is, in fact, a narcotic.’

  ‘Do you know what drug they are using?’ asked the Air Commodore.

  ‘Not yet. It doesn’t matter much, does it? The East is rotten with drugs—opium, hashish, bhang, charas, qhat, and heaven only knows what else. The next problem is to find the devil who dishes out the stuff.’

  At this point Taffy, who was still at the door, let out a yell. ‘Here comes Ginger, look you!’ he shouted. ‘By Davy! Is he in a mess!’

  A moment later Ginger appeared in the doorway. He was hatless, perspiring freely, mud-plastered from head to foot with a layer of grey dust over the mud. But he was smiling.

  ‘What cheer, everybody,’ he greeted, and then flopped on the nearest settee. ‘Blimey! What a climate . . . what a country,’ he murmured with intense feeling.

  Chapter 12

  The Oriental Touch

  Ginger was welcomed with boisterous enthusiasm.

  ‘Where have you been all this time?’ demanded Biggles, when the babble had abated.

  ‘Walking, mostly,’ was the weary reply. ‘I’ve walked miles and miles and miles. Eventually I got a lift on a bullock cart to a road, where I was lucky enough to be picked up by a jeep on the way to Calcutta.’

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Nothing astonishing.’ Ginger made a gesture of chagrin. ‘I blotted my copy book,’ he confessed. ‘I got a brace of bombers and went out for the hat trick. One of my little ambitions has always been to get three birds with one stone, so to speak. Unfortunately I hadn’t much ammo left, so to make sure I went in close.’ Ginger smiled lugubriously. ‘I went too close. I thought the rear gunner was looking the other way, but he couldn’t have been. As soon as I opened up he handed me a squirt that nearly knocked my engine off its bearers. I had to bale out.’

  ‘Did you get him?’ demanded Ferocity.

  Ginger shook his head sadly. ‘That’s the irritating part of it. I don’t know. I couldn’t hang around long enough to see.’

  There was a titter of mirth.

  ‘I got down all right—in the middle of a thousand acre paddy-field. The rice was growing in mud. I never want to see rice again. That’s all. What’s going on here—a mother’s meeting?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ returned Biggles. ‘Go and have a clean up and you’ll be in time for tea.’

  ‘I suppose I might as well,’ murmured Ginger, rising. ‘What a life.’

  After he had gone the debate was resumed.

  ‘We must get on with this,’ averred the Air Commodore. ‘I’m anxious to hear the rest. When Ginger came in you were saying something about the enemy agent who has been, and presumably still is, working here. You had previously said you thought you knew who it was. Whom do you suspect?’

  ‘The genial Lal Din.’

  ‘That moon-faced steward!’ The Air Commodore looked incredulous.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But he has no business near the machines.’

  ‘He may have no business, but as he is so well known it is doubtful if anyone would comment if he was seen strolling round. From what Johnny tells me it seems—ironically enough—that the culprit handed the stuff to Sergeant Gray to put in the machines. Very cute. Gray, of course, had no idea what he was doing. Lal Din—or whoever it is—would probably pass it over with a remark to the effect that the stuff was a regulation issue, or a free issue, from the people at home. Such a statement would not be questioned. It becomes still plainer to see why Sergeant Gray had to be silenced. Had we been allowed to question him it would have emerged that the only thing that passed his lips was chewing-gum. He would have remembered where he got it, how it got into the plane, and who gave it to him.’

  ‘If we keep watch, we ought to be able to catch the scoundrel red-handed,’ suggested the Air Commodore.

  ‘If we keep watch,’ argued Biggles, ‘we shall be more likely to start the whole station talking. One word, and our dope merchant will take fright. I’m pretty sure it’s Lal Din. He’s not what he says he is, anyway. He tries to make out he’s a Burmese Chinaman, and he talks English like one—up to a point. But his accent is a bit too pronounced for a man who has lived his life in Burma, and has been in British service. I’d say he’s got Jap blood in him. Anyway, I started working this morning on the assumption that Lal Din was an enemy agent. I made sure he was present when I briefed the flight in the mess, by ordering a packet of cigarettes. He stood by with them on his tray while I was giving my orders. So at any rate he knew, or thought he knew, which machines were going out. I deliberately gave him time to do his dirty work. The same sort of thing must have happened before. As a mess waiter Lal Din would hear talk, and perhaps see Daily Orders on the notice-board. He was in this mess when Angus asked Algy’s permission to escort Tug, when Tug was coming to fetch me in the seaplane. Incidentally, it may interest you to know that nearly all the machines which took off this morning to intercept the Jap formation were planted with dope—including the Spitfires I asked you to recall. I went to each aircraft before the sortie and collected the stuff. That’s what I meant when I said I’d spiked the secret weapon under your nose.’

  ‘I wondered what you were doing, dashing from plane to plane,’ put in the Air Commodore.

  ‘Now you will understand, too, what I meant when I spoke of the saboteur smelling a rat. It would probably be easier to get the dope put in the aircraft than recover it from them when they came back. He’s probably puzzled as to why so many of our machines did come back. He’ll be still more puzzled if he ascertains that the doped confectionery was apparently eaten—or at any rate, discovers that it has disappeared. We must be careful that he does not learn the truth. It was for that reason that I did not take the rather obvious course of putting a guard on the machines after they returned. This saboteur, whoever he is, is cunning, and once he spotted that the machines were being watched, not only would he keep clear, but he might fade away altogether. There are other ways of discovering who he is. I prefer to give him enough rope to hang himself—and other people. Assuming that the operative on this airfield is Lal Din, it doesn’t follow that he is the instigator of the scheme, or that he is working alone. It is more likely that there is a big organization behind him. Similar men are on the same job at Jangpur, Ceylon, and elsewhere. We don’t know who they are. We must find out before we
can hope to rope in the whole network. When we strike we’ve got to make a clean sweep and pull in the brains behind the show. We’ve got to find out how the dope is getting into the confectionery. We can be quite sure that it doesn’t come out from England like that. Charneys, the manufacturers, are a big, old-established British firm, quite above suspicion. Clearly, someone is getting hold of the stuff at this end and putting the dope into it. Not all of it, of course; but a certain quantity which is kept handy for use as required. Someone has access to this stuff when it arrives from England. He must be found, otherwise, if it becomes known that the chewing-gum and chocolate racket has been rumbled, we may have all sorts of foodstuffs being doped. That would mean scrapping thousands of tons of perfectly good food which would become suspect.’

  ‘Yes—er—quite so,’ said the Air Commodore, in a strange voice.

  Biggles looked at him questioningly. ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘No.’ Raymond smiled—a funny, twisted smile. ‘You’ve shaken me to the marrow, that’s all. Not so much by the nature of this thing as by the way you’ve rooted it out.’