by W E Johns
‘We haven’t finished yet,’ declared Biggles, shaking his head. ‘We’re only half-way. Before we make our next move there will have to be some careful planning. The first question to arise is, what are we going to do about the other stations that are affected? Of course, it would be the easiest thing in the world to get in touch with the commanders of those stations and tell them to order their pilots to lay off the confectionery. But if we did that it’s a dead cert that the enemy would hear about it. A safer plan would be to keep all machines grounded—except in case of dire emergency—for the time being. If we aren’t ready to strike in twenty-four hours then I’m afraid we shall have to let the other stations know what is causing the trouble. But give me a few hours before you do that.’
‘It seems to me,’ said the Air Commodore, ‘that the first thing we’ve got to do is to establish beyond all doubt that Lal Din is our man.’
‘And then what?’
‘We’ll arrest him and make him talk.’
‘Suppose he doesn’t talk? We shall have stumped ourselves. Remember, if he’s what we think he is, he’s our only link with the enemy organization.’
‘But I’m thinking about the urgency of the matter,’ returned the Air Commodore. ‘If it turned out that he was our man, and could be made to tell us the name of his employer, we could strike immediately and clear the whole thing up.’
Biggles shook his head. ‘It’s risky. Of course, if it came off it would be fine, but if it failed we should be worse off than before.’
‘I think it’s worth taking a chance,’ decided the Air Commodore. ‘Could you devise a means of finding out right away if Lal Din is the culprit?’
‘That should be easy,’ replied Biggles. He shrugged. ‘We’ll try it if you like, but if it fails, don’t blame me.’
‘Try it,’ advised the Air Commodore.
‘All right,’ agreed Biggles, without enthusiasm. ‘Algy, go to the ’phone, ring up the central canteen, and ask the manager to send Lal Din over here with some cigarettes.’
Algy went to the ’phone.
‘When Lal Din comes in, you fellows at the door and windows keep on your toes in case, when he realises that the game is up, he tries to make a break,’ ordered Biggles.
Presently Lal Din came, beaming as usual. ‘Cigarettes?’ said he, looking round the room.
Biggles, from the easy chair in which he was seated, put up a hand. ‘Over here.’
Still beaming, Lal Din approached, and handed over the cigarettes. He was turning away when Biggles called him back.
‘By the way, Lal Din,’ he said, ‘do you like chocolate?’
The Oriental did not start. His walk seemed to freeze to a standstill. He looked back over his shoulder—still beaming.
Biggles tossed a bar of chocolate on a small table in front of him. ‘Try that,’ he suggested.
Lal Din did not move. His broad smile became fixed, the humour gone out of it. The atmosphere in the room was electric.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Biggles evenly. ‘Don’t you like chocolate?’
Very slowly the steward reached out and picked up the bar. ‘Me eat after work,’ he said.
‘Eat it now,’ ordered Biggles. He spoke quietly, but there was an edge to his voice.
The steward did not move. His eyes were fixed on Biggles’ face, as if he would read what was going on behind the impassive countenance.
‘Eat it,’ snapped Biggles.
Very slowly the steward looked round the circle of faces. Then, like an automaton actuated by a hidden spring, he moved. He streaked to the far side of the room, and as he ran he drew from somewhere a small narrow-bladed knife. In front of the fireplace he dropped on his knees.
Biggles was on his feet. ‘Stop him!’ he shouted.
But he was too late. With a calm, but swift deliberation that was horrible to watch, the steward drove the blade into his side, and dragged it across his stomach. Gasping, he fell forward on his face.
The breathless hush that followed was broken by Biggles. ‘Call the ambulance, somebody,’ he said bitterly. ‘Let’s get him out of this.’ He looked at the Air Commodore. ‘That should settle any doubts about his nationality. Only a Japanese would commit hara-kari. Well, there goes our link with the enemy organization. We might have guessed he’d do something like that when he saw the game was up—and he knew it was up the instant he saw that chocolate. That would tell him why the big blitz failed this morning, and why so many of us got back. He’d never dare to tell his boss that he’d failed. That would mean losing face, which is worse than death to a Japanese. So he took a short cut to eternity. Pity, but there it is. One can’t be right all the time.’
Chapter 13
Fresh Plans
The ambulance came, and went, taking the body of the treacherous steward. Also the bloodstained hearth-rug.
‘Yes, it’s a pity about that,’ said the Air Commodore uneasily. ‘It was my fault. I should have left you alone.’
‘We found out what we wanted to know and a fat lot of good it has done us,’ replied Biggles moodily. ‘But there, the damage is done, and it’s no use moaning about it. We tried a scheme that might have saved us a lot of trouble. It didn’t work. Now we must think of something else.’
‘I’d better leave you to it,’ murmured the Air Commodore contritely. ‘When I butt in I do more harm than good. You’ve done marvellously, Bigglesworth. Keep it going.’ He went out.
Biggles dropped into a chair.
‘That was a dirty business.’ remarked Algy.
‘It was really my fault. I should have insisted on playing the game my own way. Still, let’s be charitable. Raymond is nearly out of his mind with worry; he must be desperately anxious to get the business buttoned up.’
‘What are you going to do next?’ asked Algy. ‘Is there anything you can do?’
‘Oh, yes.’ answered Biggles readily. ‘There are plenty of things; the question is, which is the best? We’ve no time to lose. As it is, I’m scared that the return of nearly all our machines this morning will have made the whole enemy organization suspicious. Now, on top of that, comes this business of Lal Din slicing himself in halves. When his boss hears about that —’
‘But will he?’ interposed Algy.
‘If he doesn’t hear about it he’ll soon know that Lal Din is no longer here; or if he is, that he is not on the job.’
‘I don’t see why he should know.’
‘Of course he will. Look at it this way. What will be the reaction of the chief enemy agent in India to the wiping out of the big Jap formation this morning, followed by the return of nearly all our machines? The first thing he’ll do is try to get in touch with Lal Din, the man on the spot, to demand an explanation.’
‘Yes, I think that’s a reasonable assumption,’ agreed Algy.
‘He will then discover that Lal Din isn’t available, and you can bet your life it won’t take him long to find out why. That’s why we’ve got to move fast.’ Biggles thought for amoment. ‘I’ll tell you what. Let’s go to the canteen to find out if anyone has already been making inquiries about Lal Din. I think it’s an angle worth watching. Did you get that list of personnel I wanted?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who’s the manager of the canteen?’
Algy took a sheet of paper from his pocket and ran an eye over it. ‘Ali Mansur,’ he answered. ‘He’s an ex-Askari, a retired sergeant of the King’s African Rifles—twenty-four years’ service. Got the D.C.M.*1 and the Long Service Medal.’
‘That should put him above suspicion, anyway,’ declared Biggles. ‘Let’s go and see him.’
They found the manager in his office. He was an elderly, dark-skinned, heavily moustached man, with a soldierly bearing, wearing his medal ribbons on the lapel of a spotless white jacket. He had not yet learned of the fate of his assistant, and after dwelling for a moment or two on the need for secrecy, Biggles told him the truth, which in any case could not long be concealed—that Lal Di
n was dead by his own hand.
‘This man was a Japanese spy,’ said Biggles. ‘He could not face defeat. The chief Japanese secret agent will soon want an explanation of the decisive blow we struck this morning against the enemy bombers. What I am anxious to know, sergeant, is this. Has anyone been here making inquiries for Lal Din?’
‘Not today, sahib,’ replied the sergeant.
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘If such a one had been here I should know of it.’
‘Has Lal Din been out, or asked for time off?’
‘No, sahib. He could not leave the station without my permission.’
‘What exactly did you mean when you said, not today? Have inquiries been made for him on other occasions?’
‘Yes, sahib.’
‘By whom?’
‘His brother, or a man calling himself a brother, comes to see him.’
‘Have you seen this brother?’
‘No, sahib.’
‘How’s that?’
‘I rarely leave the station, and the brother has no permit to enter. So we have not met.’
‘What happens, then?’
‘The brother, or any stranger, must go to the main gate. There he speaks to the N.C.O. of the guard, asking for Lal Din. The N.C.O. rings me on the telephone, and if it is possible I allow Lal Din to go to the gate. You must understand, though, that there were days when Lal Din took time off. Then, doubtless, he left the station, although where he went I do not know. I can only tell you of what happens when the brother comes asking for him when he is on duty.’
‘This has sometimes happened?’
‘Often, sahib.’
‘But it has not happened today?’
‘No, sahib.’
‘Thank you, sergeant. You have told me just what I wanted to know.’ Biggles turned to Algy. ‘We’re lucky. No one has been here yet, but in view of what happened in the air this morning I think someone will call. Of course, it may be that the chief saboteur is waiting for Lal Din to report to him with an explanation. When he doesn’t show up someone will be sent to find out why. That may take time. I can’t afford to wait. I’ve another line of approach up my sleeve, and I’d like to tackle it right away.’ Biggles turned back to Sergeant Mansur. ‘There is another matter I would like to discuss with you. Who gave Lal Din his job at this station?’
‘I did, sahib. As mess caterer I employ my own staff—with the approval of the adjutant*2, of course.’
‘How did you get in touch with Lal Din?’
‘There was a vacancy, sahib, and he came to me on a recommendation.’
‘From whom?’
‘Messrs. Tahil and Larapindi.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Shippers’ and merchants’ agents, sahib. They represent many British firms in India. Much goods imported go through their hands. They have a big warehouse at the docks, in Calcutta, and offices in many Eastern towns.’
‘Does this firm supply stuff to our canteen?’
‘Yes, sahib.’
‘Things like chocolate, chewing-gum . . .’
‘Yes, among other things, sahib.’
‘When is this stuff delivered, and how?’
‘When we need supplies I ring up Tahil and Larapindi, and they send the goods up in one of their cars.’
‘And what happens when the stuff gets here?’
‘It is unloaded and put out for sale.’
‘Who unloads it?’
‘Sometimes I check it in, sahib; sometimes Lal Din, or one of the other assistants, might do it.’
‘Anyway, the stuff is taken to the canteen and made available for the troops?’
‘Yes, sahib.’
‘And this firm recommended Lal Din?’
‘Not the firm exactly, sahib. Mr. Larapindi rang me up on the telephone and asked me to find work for a very good man he knew.’
‘I see,’ said Biggles slowly. ‘What sort of man is this Larapindi—have you seen him?’
‘Many times, sahib. He is Eurasian, but of what precise nationality I do not know. He is a small man, with a brown face, and wears very large spectacles.’
‘I am told there has been a free issue of chocolate and chewing-gum. Is that so?’
‘Yes, sahib.’
‘How long has it been going on?’
‘It is not a regular thing. We had the first case sent up not long ago. It came with other goods from Tahil and Larapindi.’
‘Was this after Lal Din arrived?’
‘Yes, sahib.’
‘And he dished the stuff out?’
‘Yes, sahib—he offered to do it.’
‘Thank you, sergeant. You have been most helpful.’ Biggles turned to Algy. ‘This is worth following up.’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve half a mind to abandon my alternative scheme, which was to slip up to Jangpur to try to nab the fellow there who is doing what Lal Din was doing here. If I could get my hands on him I might make him speak.’
At this moment Air Commodore Raymond came hurrying into the canteen. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ he told Biggles.
‘Now what’s wrong, sir?’ queried Biggles.
‘The Higher Command says we simply must get this China route in full operation again. The Chinese doctors are having to perform operations on their wounded without anaesthetics. Not only are medical stores urgently needed, but several senior officials are waiting to go through. Now we know what caused the trouble I thought perhaps you could do something about it, if it isn’t upsetting your plans.’
‘No. As a matter of fact it fits in with my plans quite well,’ returned Biggles. You can reckon that the route will be functioning again to-morrow. I’ll slip up right away to see Frayle. All you have to do is send him some machines, and pilots to fly them.’
‘And you don’t think there will be any more risk?’
‘I don’t think so, sir—at any rate, not if my plan succeeds.’
‘Then I can tell the A.O.C. that the route will be open with effect from to-morrow?’
‘It will—unless you hear to the contrary from me or Algy.’
‘Good.’ The Air Commodore hurried away.
Biggles turned back to Algy and the sergeant. ‘Now this is what I want you to do, Algy. You keep in touch with Sergeant Mansur. If anyone comes asking for Lal Din the sergeant will let you know. You will go to the gate and see the man. Tell him that Lal Din is sick. Don’t let him suspect the truth. When the man goes off to report to his boss, as it seems pretty certain that he will, you’ll follow him and watch where he goes. Make a note of the place and return here. I shall have to go to Jangpur, but I’ll get back as quickly as I can. It may be late to-night or early to-morrow morning. If the route is to open to-morrow I’ve got to pick up the man who is putting the dope in the machines.’
‘Why not tell the fellows up there straight out not to touch any confectionery they find in their machines?’
‘Because in five minutes everyone of the station would know what was in the wind—including the spy. He’d escape, and warn his boss in Calcutta. No, I’ve got to catch him. We’re not ready yet to broadcast the story. I’d better warn Frayle that I’m coming.’
Algy’s eyes went round when he heard Biggles, on the telephone, tell Squadron Leader Frayle that he was coming right away to take another load of medical supplies to Chungking. Biggles continued: ‘I want you to start loading the machine at once—yes, in the ordinary way. I don’t mind who knows about it. I shall take off as soon as it’s ready. By the way, I may be staying at Jangpur for a day or two, so you might fix me up with a room and a bed.’
To this Frayle apparently agreed, for as Biggles hung up he said with a smile, ‘That’s okay.’
Said Algy: ‘Are you really going to Chungking?’
‘No fear. I’ve too much to do here. But I’d like the gent at Jangpur who hands out the dope to think I’m going.’
‘Ah,’ breathed Algy. ‘I get it.’
‘I’ll be getting along,’
decided Biggles. ‘You watch things at this end. I hope I shan’t be long away.’
In a few minutes, having ascertained that the radiator had been repaired, Biggles was in the air, in the Typhoon heading north on the short run to Jangpur. A haversack containing his small-kit went with him.
Squadron Leader Frayle and Flying Officer Bargent met him on the tarmac, Frayle to say that the transport plane was ready, and Bargent to ask if he could go as second pilot. Biggles refused, gently, but firmly. ‘I have reasons of my own for making this trip alone,’ he said. ‘With luck you should be able to take a machine through yourself, to-morrow.’ Turning to Frayle, Biggles asked, ‘Did you fix me up with a room?’ On receiving an assurance that the room was available he walked over to look at it, and leave his haversack.
Bargent had wandered off, so Biggles was able to speak privately to the station commander who, without asking questions, nevertheless made it clear that there was something about this projected trip that struck him as phoney.
Biggles decided to take him into his confidence. ‘The facts, briefly, are these, Frayle,’ he said quietly. ‘This route has got to start functioning again to-morrow. There’s nothing phoney about that. More pilots and machines are being sent up to you. Unfortunately you’ve got an enemy agent on the station. You can’t operate while he’s about, so I’m here to nab him. If I succeed, you should have no further trouble. That machine standing out there ticking over has been tampered with—or at least, I hope it has. I’ve given the saboteur plenty of time to do his dirty work. Now then: after I have taken off certain things will happen that may surprise you. My subsequent behaviour, for example. But whatever happens I want you to carry on as though everything was normal. And see that your officers do, too. Don’t let there be any discussion. Show no surprise, and leave me alone. That’s all. I’ll push along now.’
‘It’s your funeral,’ murmured Frayle simply. He was too good an officer to argue.
Leaving his small-kit in his room, in mellow evening sunlight Biggles walked across to where the Wellington was waiting. There were several airmen and native porters standing about, watching with interest, but they said nothing. Appearing not to notice them Biggles climbed into his seat, tested his engines, waved the attendant mechanics away, and took off.
