Biggles in the Orient

by W E Johns

  As soon as his wheels were off the ground he put the aircraft on a course that was practically due east, for Chungking, and when he settled down he examined the contents of the locker. Conveniently placed, he found a packet of chewing-gum. Smiling grimly he put it in his pocket.

  The aircraft roared on through the fading light. The time, by the watch in front of him, was a quarter to six.

  Chapter 14

  The Trap

  Precisely half an hour later, in the silvery light of a full moon, Biggles roared back to the airfield at Jangpur and landed. The return of the aircraft caused minor sensation. Mechanics appeared, running, and there was some brisk conversation when the transport machine was identified. The few remaining officers on the station, mostly ground staff, but with Frayle and Bargent among them, came out to see what was going on. In the clear moonlight this did not take them long.

  Biggles climbed out. He seemed to be not quite steady on his feet, and after swaying for a moment rested a hand on an airman’s shoulder as if for support.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Frayle anxiously. ‘Why did you come back?’

  ‘Engine—giving trouble,’ answered Biggles in a dull voice. ‘Getting a—lot of—vibration—starboard side. Thought I’d better—turn back . . . not risk—forced landing.’

  ‘I should think so,’ agreed Frayle, looking at Biggles with a curious expression on his face. ‘Are you feeling all right—yourself, I mean?’

  ‘No. Feel sort of—odd,’ replied Biggles, holding his head in a dazed sort of way. ‘Must have got—touch of sun. Twinge of fever—maybe.’ He staggered and nearly fell.

  The audience of airmen and porters whispered among themselves. There was a titter of laughter when a voice was heard to say, ‘Tight as an owl.’

  ‘I think you’d better go to your room and lie down,’ suggested Frayle.

  ‘Yes,’ muttered Biggles thickly. ‘Best thing—I think. Head’s sort of—swimming. Must be—fever. Seems to be getting—worse.’

  Frayle made a signal and the ambulance came out to meet the party. Biggles allowed the station commander to help him into it.

  ‘Shall I send the M.O. along to see you?’ offered Frayle.

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll be—all right. Go—sleep.’

  ‘As you like,’ returned Frayle.

  The ambulance took Biggles to the sleeping accommodation that had been prepared for him—a small room in the station commander’s bungalow, which was an extension of the officers’ quarters. Most of the officers went back to the mess, but Frayle and Bargent, having removed Biggles’ tunic, helped him on to the bed and took off his shoes. He appeared to fall asleep immediately.

  Said Bargent, looking down at the recumbent figure: ‘I’ve got a nasty feeling there’s something fishy about this. If I hadn’t done a trip with him I’d swear he was three sheets in the wind.’

  ‘He half prepared me for something unusual,’ replied Frayle. ‘He said that whatever happened I was not to worry him, but leave him alone. I don’t like leaving a fellow in this condition, but I suppose we shall have to.’ They went out, leaving the electric light on.

  As soon as they had gone Biggles raised himself on an elbow, listened intently for a minute, and then got off the bed. Moving quickly he switched out the light, locked the door, drew the curtains aside and arranged the window so that it could be opened easily. For a little while he stood surveying the airfield, a clear view of which the window commanded, while pale blue moonlight flooded the little room. Leaving the window he took out his automatic, examined it, and put it in a side pocket of the slacks he still wore. The time, he noted, was twenty minutes to seven. Then, apparently satisfied, he settled himself on the bed in a sleeping position facing the window, and half closed his eyes.

  Time passed. For a while there were occasional sounds outside—footsteps of airmen going on or off duty, and voices as they talked or called to each other. But as the night wore on these sounds died away and silence fell. After a short interval the orderly officer*1 could be heard making his first round. More time passed. Once, far away, a dog or a jackal yelped. A cock crowed in a distant village, apparently misled by the brilliant moonlight into thinking that dawn was at hand. Biggles did not move a muscle. Only his chest rose and fell with his deep breathing. The difficulty, he found, was to do this without actually falling asleep, for he was beginning to feel the strain of working at high pressure, and he was really tired. His eyes, half closed, were on the window. Not for a moment did they leave it.

  He lost count of time, but he estimated roughly that it was about nine-thirty when he saw that for which he had so long waited. There was no sound, but a shadow moved slowly across the square of moonlight framed by the window. Within a minute it was back, stationary, close by the window. All this Biggles saw quite clearly through half-closed eyes. Moonlight flashed on the glass of the window as inch by inch it was opened. Still there was no noise, and as the man crept into the room Biggles marvelled that anyone could move with such a complete absence of sound. Standing close against the window, the visitor made no more noise than the vague shadow he appeared to be. Biggles could not make out any detail. Beyond the fact that the visitor was naked except for a loin-cloth, and carrying in his left hand a strip of rag, he could see nothing of him.

  Like a black wraith the marauder appeared to float towards the bed. Again he stopped and listened, before bending over the prone form on the bed as if to examine it. His breathing was just audible. Then, taking the strip of rag in both hands he pressed it firmly over Biggles’ lips and nostrils.

  As the rag touched his face Biggles’ hands shot up and seized his assailant by the throat. With a convulsive jerk the man broke free, and Biggles knew that he had made a mistake; for the throat was slimy with oil, and his fingers could not maintain their grip. The man streaked like a panther to the window. Launching himself from the bed Biggles got him by the legs: but they, too, had been oiled, and although the man fell, he was free again before Biggles could take advantage of the fall. The body slid through his hands like an eel. In a flash the man was on his feet. Biggles, too, was getting up. He caught the gleam of steel and flung himself sideways, but a sharp pain in the upper part of his left arm told him that the knife had found a billet. After the first stab there was no more pain; only a feeling of nausea.

  By this time his assailant had turned, and had again reached the window. Biggles, by this time aware of the futility of trying to hold the body, grabbed at the loin-cloth, and tried to drag the man back into the room. But either the stuff was rotten, or in two pieces, for the part he had seized came away in his hand, with the result that he went over backwards. By the time he had recovered himself, although he was still on the floor, the man was half-way across the sill, a black silhouette against the moonlight. It was obvious that in another second he would be gone.

  Now Biggles’ plan had been to catch the man alive, for which reason he had so far refrained from using his pistol; but seeing that the man was about to escape, and aware that if he succeeded in this it would be fatal to his plans, he snatched out his pistol. There was no time to take aim. He fired from the hip. The weapon roared. The flash momentarily blinded him, so that he could not see whether he had hit his man or into. Vaguely conscious of hot blood running down his arm he scrambled to his feet and dashed to the window. One glance told him all he needed to know. A figure lay asprawl on the brown earth. Panting, for the last few minutes had been strenuous, Biggles backed to the bed and sat down heavily, to recover his breath and his composure.

  Outside, voices shouted. Footsteps approached, running, both inside and outside the bungalow. A fist banged on the door. Before Biggles could answer, or get to it, it was forced open with a crash. Someone blundered into the room. The light was switched on. Frayle, in pyjamas, stood there.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked sharply. ‘Who fired that shot?’

  ‘I did,’ replied Biggles laconically.

  ‘Good God, man! You’re wounde
d.’ Frayle’s eyes were on the bloodstained sleeve of Biggles’ shirt.

  ‘It’s only a scratch,’ returned Biggles. ‘Give me a drink—water will do.’

  Frayle obliged.

  ‘Thanks.’ Biggles drank, and drew a deep breath. ‘That’s better. Send for the M.O., Frayle, to have a look at that fellow outside. Tell him to bring his needle and cotton–my arm may need a stitch.’

  Bargent entered through the window. ‘I say!’ he exclaimed, in a perturbed voice, ‘You’ve killed the fellow.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that—in a way,’ replied Biggles. ‘I wanted him alive. Who is he—do you know?’

  ‘Of course I know. It’s Kong Po, our dhobi-wallah*2.’

  ‘What was his nationality?’

  ‘We always supposed he was a sort of Chinese.’

  Frayle spoke: ‘He’s Chinese according to his station identity card.’

  ‘Alter it to Japanese,’ cried Biggles.

  Presently the M.O. came in. ‘There’s nothing I can do for that fellow outside—he’s dead,’ he announced. ‘What about your arm?’ He looked at the wound. ‘Narrow, but rather deep,’ he went on. ‘You’d better have a stitch in it.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ invited Biggles. ‘Don’t be long; I’ve got to get back to Dum Dum. Give me a cigarette, Frayle.’

  ‘Before you go, perhaps you won’t mind telling me why you came here to bump off my dhobi?’ Frayle’s voice was soft with sarcasm.

  ‘I didn’t come here to shoot him,’ replied Biggles evenly. ‘I came here to get him, but he knifed me and I daren’t let him get away. Too much was at stake.’

  ‘Why did you want him?’

  ‘Because,’ answered Biggles, flinching as the M.O.’s needle pricked his skin, ‘he was your own pet secret weapon. He came to this room to strangle me. I thought he would come. I hoped he would. One of our airmen at Dum Dum, a sergeant named Gray, was murdered in precisely the same circumstances and for the same reason. I planned for a repetition of the incident, and it came off. Your precious Kong Po was afraid I might put two and two together, and talk about it, when I came round from what he supposed was a stupor brought on by a drug.’

  ‘But I don’t understand,’ said Frayle impatiently. ‘How does this hook up with the secret weapon?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in plain language,’ decided Biggles. ‘Keep the story to yourself though, for the time being. There isn’t a secret weapon—or not the sort you probably have in mind. The enemy has planted agents on certain of our airfields. With so many Orientals about that wasn’t difficult. The master-brain behind the racket had enough influence to get these men jobs. In our case, at Dum Dum, the spy was a mess waiter. The real work of these men was simple. All they had to do was arrange for a small supply of chocolate or chewing-gum to be put in each operational aircraft just before it took off. These sweeties were not the sort you’d give to the baby to suck. They had been treated with a powerful narcotic. It needs little imagination to visualise what happened in the aircraft. During the course of the flight the pilot finds the confectionery and has a bite, with the result that he loses the use of his limbs and his brain and crashes. It was always on the boards, however, that the stuff might fall into the hands of someone other than the man for whom it was intended. The sergeant I mentioned just now got hold of a piece. During the night, while he was still under the influence of the drug, he was murdered to prevent him from talking. I didn’t know how it was done, but I do now. Strangulation was the method employed; I imagine it isn’t hard to strangle an unconscious man without leaving a mark. This evening I set a trap. I took off but returned, ostensibly with engine trouble. There was dope in the machine. When I landed I acted as though I had fallen for it. Some of your fellows thought I was drunk. Only the spy, who was pretty certain to investigate, would know the truth—or what he thought was the truth. That I had been drugged. It was up to him to see that I didn’t come round, so he came to do me in. I was waiting, with the result that he got it, not me. That’s all. Now he’s out of the way there won’t be any more doped confectionery in your machines, so with effect from to-morrow the route will operate in the normal way. But to be on the safe side—you needn’t say why—you can issue a secret order to your pilots forbidding them to touch any sort of food while in the air. In any case, I’m aiming to clean up the whole gang in the next few hours. Meanwhile, for obvious reasons, you will say nothing of this to anyone. Should someone come here inquiring for Kong Po—and that may happen—just say that he has met with an accident and is not available.’

  ‘Well, stiffen my benders!’ muttered Bargent. ‘I never heard such a tale in my life.’

  ‘The East is the home of strange stories.’ returned Biggles dryly, as he tried moving his arm, which the M.O. had now finished bandaging.

  ‘What beats me is, how you got on the trail of the thing,’ said Frayle, in a voice of wonder. ‘It was so simple, yet so subtle —’

  ‘The Oriental mind works on those lines. I’ve been in the East before,’ murmured Biggles as he stood up. ‘I’ll just have a look round this dhobi-wallah’s bedroom and then get back to Dum Dum.’

  As Frayle led the way to the room Biggles asked: ‘How did you come to employ this man—Kong Po?’

  ‘A fellow in Calcutta rang me up and asked me if I had a vacancy for a good man. He said Kong Po had worked for him, so he could recommend him. The chap was out of work and he wanted to help him. So I took Kong Po on.’

  ‘You knew this man who rang you up, I presume? I mean, he wasn’t just a stranger?’

  ‘Oh, no. I’ve met him several times. As a matter of fact he’s a wealthy merchant who has often made presents to the mess. I wish there were more about like him.’

  A ghost of a smile hovered for a moment round Biggles’ lips. ‘Was his name by any chance Larapindi?’

  Frayle started. ‘Yes. What on earth made you say that?’

  ‘Only that he has showed an interest in Dum Dum, too,’ replied Biggles casually.

  The room turned out to be a tiny cubicle near the kitchens. A systematic search revealed only one item of interest—a small cardboard box containing several loose bars of chocolate, wrapped, and packets of chewing-gum. The box bore in large type the usual confectionery manufacturer’s announcements, under the heading: CHARNEYS GOLD MEDAL CHOCOLATES. LONDON. AGENCIES AT CALCUTTA, CAPE TOWN, SINGAPORE AND SYDNEY,

  ‘Very interesting,’ murmured Biggles. ‘As the stuff is loose we may assume that the box is merely a receptacle for the present contents which, I imagine, have been doctored. I doubt if the man had any hand in the preparation of the dope; the chocolate and gum would be issued to him in this form, ready for use. Better burn the stuff, Frayle, to prevent accidents.’

  A corporal medical orderly came in. In his hand he carried a packet of notes, brand new. ‘I thought you’d better take charge of this, sir,’ he said, speaking to his station commander. ‘I found it tied up in Kong Po’s loin-cloth. There must be close on a thousand rupees—a lot of money for a man like that to have about him.’

  ‘Too much for an honest dhobi-wallah,’ said Biggles softly. ‘I’ll take charge of that, Frayle, if you don’t mind; I have an idea it will tell us something. Well, there doesn’t seem to be anything else; I think I’ll be getting along.’

  ‘Sure you feel fit enough to fly?’ queried the M.O.

  ‘I’m all right, thanks,’ answered Biggles. ‘Arm’s getting a bit stiff, that’s all—but I don’t fly with my left hand.’

  In twenty minutes he was back at Dum Dum. The time was just after ten o’clock. He went straight to Air Commodore Raymond’s quarter. The Air Commodore was there, writing a report.

  ‘I thought it would ease your mind to know that the Chungking run is okay now, sir.’ reported Biggles. ‘The regular service will be resumed in the morning. Things are moving fast, and may move faster before dawn. While I’m talking to my chaps I want you to do something for me.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Biggles
took from his pocket the notes that had been found on the dead dhobi-wallah. ‘From the condition these are in it seems likely that they were issued recently,’ he surmised. ‘I want you to find out which bank issued these notes, and to whom.’

  The Air Commodore looked dubious. ‘At this hour? People will have knocked off work.’

  ‘Then tell them to knock on again,’ requested Biggles. ‘This business won’t wait. You ought to be able to get the information on the ’phone.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ promised the Air Commodore. ‘I take it you’ve got the enemy agent at Jangpur ear-marked?’

  Biggles was at the door. He looked over his shoulder, smiling grimly. ‘I ear-marked him all right—with a forty-five pistol slug. See you later.’

  He went on to the mess. Algy and the rest were there, waiting. Some were dozing, but there was a quick, expectant stir, when Biggles entered. He spoke to Bertie.

  ‘Get some coffee and see that it’s strong. I’m dog tired, but we’re going to be busy for a bit. You might scrounge some sandwiches or biscuits at the same time.’ He turned to Algy. ‘Did you have any luck?’

  ‘It worked out as you expected,’ replied Algy. ‘A man calling himself Lal Din’s brother rolled up, asking for him. I told him Lal Din was sick. He went off and I followed him.’

  ‘Good. Where did he go?’

  ‘To the docks, to the warehouse of Tahil and Larapindi. I hung around for some time but he didn’t come out, although there seemed to be a fair amount of activity.’

  ‘There’ll be more, presently,’ promised Biggles. ‘I fancy that warehouse is the target for to-night. I’m just waiting for confirmation. I shall be glad when this show is over; I’m missing my beauty sleep. Ah—here’s the coffee.’

  ‘What happened at Jangpur?’ asked Ginger. ‘The others have told me what happened here.’