by W E Johns
Biggles gave a brief account of events at Jangpur. He had just finished when the Air Commodore came in.
‘I got the information you wanted,’ he announced. ‘I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed; the money seems to have been issued in the ordinary course of business.’
‘It would be,’ mutter Biggles cynically.
‘It’s part of a pay-roll issued by the Peninsular and Oriental Bank, to—just a minute.’ The Air Commodore fumbled with a slip of paper.
‘Tahil and Larapindi?’ suggested Biggles.
The Air Commodore stared. ‘That’s right. How the deuce did you guess that?’
‘I wasn’t guessing,’ returned Biggles. ‘Thanks, sir. You can go to bed now. I may have some good news for you in the morning.’
‘Are you going out?’
‘We are.’
‘Can I come?’
Biggles shook his head. ‘You’d be better advised to keep out of the way. What 666 Squadron is going to do, or may have to do, to-night, is entirely unofficial. There’s no place for an Air Commodore.’
‘All right. I’ll leave you to it.’ The Air Commodore looked at Biggles suspiciously. ‘Be careful.’ He went out.
‘Are we really going down to this warehouse place?’ asked Tug.
‘Probably. It depends. I have a call to make first.’
‘But I say, old boy, it’s a bit late for making calls, isn’t it?’ queried Bertie.
‘Not too late, I hope.’
‘Say! Suppose there’s nobody at the warehouse?’ put in Tex. ‘How shall we get in?’
‘It was never my intention to ring the front-door bell,’ said Biggles. His manner became brisk. ‘Algy, see about transport. Better get a light truck, one we can all get in. And in case there’s an argument you’d better all bring guns. On the other hand, there may be nothing for you to do. We shall see. Ginger, you’re about the best fitter in the party. Put a few tools in a bag in case we have to do a spot of housebreaking. Which reminds me; I think it would be a good idea if everyone wore tennis shoes, or something with a sole that won’t make a noise.’
‘Where do we go first?’ asked Algy.
Biggles went to the telephone directory, looked up a number and made a note. ‘I want you to drive me first to Mimosa Lodge, Razlet Avenue. If I remember, that’s one of those wide streets in the European quarter east of the Maidan. I’ll guide you.’
‘What are you going to do there?’ asked Algy.
‘I’m only going to make a call.’
‘On whom?’
‘A gentleman by the name of Larapindi,’ answered Biggles.
Chapter 15
Biggles Makes A Call
Algy drove the car, a light, covered service lorry, to Calcutta. Biggles sat on one side of him, with Ginger on his left.
On the short drive in Biggles said: ‘I can’t tell you exactly what I’m going to do because I’m not sure myself. The business has reached that touchy stage when anything can happen. I’m a bit scared of the plan I have in mind, but our hands are being forced. We’ve got to move fast, before the enemy learns what has happened to his operatives at Dum Dum and Jangpur. I’m pretty sure this fellow Larapindi is in the racket, and if he’s not actually the head man, he’s pretty high, up. The broad idea, if I find Larapindi at home, is: first, to allay his suspicions, if they are aroused; and secondly, to get him to do something that will give us the necessary evidence to hang him.’
‘Couldn’t we get the police to raid his premises, both his home and the warehouse?’ suggested Algy.
‘We could, and that is what the police would probably do if they knew what we know. But I don’t think it would do the slightest good. It’s ten to one they wouldn’t find anything. Spies aren’t such fools as to leave incriminating evidence lying about when they know the police are on the job. Police actions are governed by regulations. They have to announce their intentions by knocking at the door. If we asked for a police raid the chances are we should do more harm than good, by exposing our hand for nothing. I’ve always taken the view that when one is dealing with tricksters the best plan is to play tricky. So I’m going to try unorthodox tactics. If I slip up there will be an awful stink—a question asked in Parliament, perhaps. We shall get a rap over the knuckles, and perhaps lose some seniority.’
‘That should worry us,’ remarked Algy sarcastically.
‘We’ll stop the car a little distance from the house,’ went on Biggles. ‘Here’s the Maidan. I believe that’s the Avenue Razlet, over there. Pull up against the kerb when I give the word.’
In view of the lateness of the hour—it was nearly eleven o’clock—there were few pedestrians about, and very little traffic. The night was fine and hot. The Hugli River wound like a monstrous black snake through the resting city.
‘You’ll do,’ said Biggles sharply. As the car pulled up the continues: ‘Tell the boys to keep quiet while I’m away. If I’m not back in an hour you’ll know something’s gone wrong, so you’d better come looking for me. If you do, remember that unless my suspicions are all cock-eye, this Larapindi is as cunning as a jackal and as deadly as a cobra. Sit fast and keep your eyes on the house. I may be some time.’
Biggles walked on up the avenue. A policeman directed him to Mimosa Lodge, a magnificent house standing in its own spacious garden. A fine pair of wrought iron gates gave access to a short drive that ended at a sweeping flight of steps. The gates were not locked, and in a minute Biggles was pressing the bell.
The door was opened, as he expected it to be, by a servant, quiet, efficient, in spotless white. The man looked a trifle surprised when he saw the visitor, but in reply to Biggles’ inquiry said that Mr. Larapindi was at home. Biggles presented his card, and was then asked to wait in a hall, the furnishings of which were so fine, so rare and so costly as to give him a twinge of uneasiness. The house appeared to be the residence of a millionaire rather than that of an enemy spy. While the servant had gone to deliver his card his eyes roamed from one object of Oriental art to another, with rising misgivings. Then he realised that as a partner in the great firm of Tahil and Larapindi, the man whom he had come to see probably was a millionaire several times over.
The servant, walking with soft, easy steps, returned. ‘This way, sahib,’ said he.
Biggles followed him through a sumptuously furnished library to a door at the far end. On this the servant knocked before opening it. ‘Enter, sahib,’ he invited, with a little bow. ‘Mr Larapindi awaits you.’
As Biggles accepted the invitation he took in the scene at a glance. The room, not a large one, was fitted out in a manner that was something between a private sitting-room and a study. Again the furnishings were impressive. Pieces of priceless Oriental porcelain, objects in carved ivory and exquisite work in precious metals, occupied the shelves. Behind a large lacquer writing-desk the owner was standing to greet his visitor. He was a small man immaculately dressed in European clothes. Large gold-rimmed spectacles, slightly tinted, almost concealed his eyes.
‘Please to be seated, sir,’ said Larapindi, in faultless if rather suave English, at the same time indicating a heavily-carved chair that had already been pulled towards the desk in readiness. Having seen his visitor seated he himself sat down behind the desk.
‘Thank you,’ said Biggles.
‘You wish to see me?’ went on Larapindi smoothly. ‘I do not think we have met before?’
Biggles smiled awkwardly. ‘No. This is hardly the time to call, I’m afraid, but when I have explained the reason I hope you’ll forgive me. It happened that in passing your house I remembered, or it may have been that your house reminded me, of something my canteen manager once told me. But before I go any further I should explain that I am the temporary Mess President at Dum Dum airfield. Some time ago, Sergeant Mansure, our canteen manager, informed me that you have been good enough to recommend a man for work in the canteen. His name is Lal Din—or perhaps you don’t remember him?’
‘I recall him perfe
ctly well,’ said Larapindi, in an expressionless voice. He pushed towards Biggles a massive gold cigarette box. ‘Please to have a cigarette, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ Biggles accepted the cigarette. ‘This man Lal Din has turned out to be a most excellent steward—always cheerful, willing and obliging. We shall miss him.’
Larapindi’s chin dropped a trifle so that he could survey his guest over his large glasses. ‘Do you mean, he has—gone?’
‘Not exactly,’ returned Biggles. ‘But the day before yesterday he complained of not feeling well. Yesterday he was obviously very ill, so I sent the Medical Officer to see him. It turns out that the poor fellow has smallpox.’
Larapindi drew a deep breath. ‘Oh, dear! That is very sad.’
Biggles thought he caught a suspicion of relief, or it may have been understanding, in the way the words were spoken.
‘Of course, it hardly needs me to tell you what an outbreak of infectious disease means on a station like Dum Dum,’ he went on. ‘Lal Din, poor chap, has been put in an isolation ward, and there, I’m afraid, he’ll remain for some time. Which brings me to my point. We’re going to miss him. To-morrow morning I shall have to see about getting a new steward. In the ordinary way I should have advertised for a man, but this evening I had to come into the city, and in passing your house it struck me suddenly that as your first recommendation had turned out so successfully you might know of another fellow. I don’t expect you to produce another Lal Din off-hand, so to speak; but you might know of someone who could take up his duties right away. We shall be short-handed without Lal Din, and the sooner I have someone to replace him the better. In the ordinary way that might take two or three days. Now you know the reason I hope you will pardon me for breaking in on you at so late an hour.’
Larapindi made a deprecatory gesture. ‘Do not speak of it,’ he protested. ‘Call on me at any time. If I can be of service the honour will be mine. It happens that you have called at a most fortunate moment. Only today my business manager came to me telling me of a man who has applied to us for work, a most excellent man. I should be glad to employ him myself, but I shall account it an honour if you will allow me to send him to you. I forget his name for the moment, but he is a Burmese from Rangoon, one of those unfortunate creatures who had to fly to India before the invasion of these hateful Japanese. He has been a house servant, and has had experience as a waiter. When would you like me to send him to you?’
‘First thing in the morning,’ requested Biggles. ‘The sooner he takes up his duties the sooner will the pressure on our overworked staff be relieved.’
‘I shall see that he is there,’ promised Larapindi.
‘Thank you. That is really most kind of you,’ said Biggles gratefully. ‘By the way, on my last tour of duty in India I believe I once had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Tahil, the senior partner of your firm. I trust he is in good health?’
‘Alas, no,’ sighed Larapindi sadly. ‘Evidently you did not hear of his tragic accident?’
‘Why, what happened?’ asked Biggles, who was genuinely surprised, and not a little interested.
‘Poor Mr. Tahil died from snake-bite,’ explained Larapindi. ‘It happened on a golf links, of all places. His ball fell in the rough. Stooping to pick it up he accidentally touched a krait*1 that must have been lying beside the ball. Unfortunately, we were some way from the club-house. I ran all the way, but it was no use. Before a doctor could arrive with serum he was dead. It was a lamentable affair, and caused something of a sensation in Calcutta, because Mr Tahil was a noted philanthropist, besides being a good servant of the government.’
Biggles’ eyes were on Larapindi’s face. ‘What a terrible shock it must have been to you. I take it you were playing together?’
‘We were. It was indeed a shock. I’ve hardly recovered from it.’
‘And a blow, too,. I imagine,’ murmured Biggles sympathetically. ‘I mean, his death must have thrown a lot of extra work on your shoulders, since it would leave you in complete charge of the business.’
Larapindi shrugged. ‘These things happen; we must face them. I am doing my best to carry on single-handed.’
Biggles shook his head. ‘I am very sorry to learn of this.’
Now, during the latter part of the conversation his eyes lifted to a framed photograph that hung on the wall behind his host. Actually, there were several such photographs, most of them portraying the various offices of the firm of Tahil and Larapindi throughout the Orient. But one photograph in particular claimed his attention, for it was a picture of an aircraft, a civil marine aircraft—or to be more precise, a Gull. It was moored on a river, off the end of the slipway, with a private hangar bearing the name of the firm in the background. The aircraft, which carried the Indian registration letters VTT-XQL, also bore on its nose the name of the firm.
‘Pardon my curiosity, Mr. Larapindi,’ said Biggles, ‘but the photograph behind you arouses my professional interest. I see your firm operates its own aircraft?’
‘It did, until the war put an end to private enterprise,’ answered Larapindi, swinging round in his chair to glance at the photograph. ‘We try to be progressive, you know. Our interests in the East are so widespread that the adoption of the aeroplane as a means of transport was almost automatic. We bought a machine, a Gull, and established a repair and maintenance depot a few miles higher up the river. It would have been developed had not the war put an end to our plans—only temporarily, I hope.’
‘Of course,’ said Biggles quietly. ‘No doubt you had to ground the machine when the war started.’
‘Yes, the government asked us to, and, naturally, we were only too anxious to oblige. We shall need pilots when the war is over, so if ever you abandon the service as a career I hope you will come to see me, to our mutual benefit.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ promised Biggles. ‘But I must be on my way. I’m glad to have had this opportunity of meeting you.’ He got up.
‘I hope we shall meet again, sir,’ said Larapindi, also rising.
‘I’m sure we shall,’ replied Biggles evenly. ‘Meanwhile, I shall expect your man first thing in the morning.’
‘He will be there.’
Larapindi saw his guest to the door, where they parted.
Biggles returned to the lorry.
‘How did you get on?’ asked Algy.
‘I got what I went for,’ answered Biggles. ‘Now listen, everybody. I’ve told Larapindi that Lal Din is down with smallpox, and asked him to send us a man to replace him. He has promised to send one along first thing in the morning. That means he’s got to get busy, to-night, finding a man, giving him instructions, and supplying him with a stock of doped confectionery. I doubt if he’ll risk talking over the telephone. Unless I’ve missed my mark he’ll attend to the business in person. We’ll watch from here. If he goes out, we’ll follow.’
Hardly had he finished speaking when a man, in the attire of an Indian servant, appeared at the iron gates, and walked briskly down the avenue.
‘What about him?’ asked Ginger.
‘He’s probably part of the organisation, but we’ve got to go for bigger game,’ answered Biggles. ‘That chap has been sent out on an errand—probably to fetch the fellow Larapindi has in mind to replace Lal Din. We’re all right. Either the man will be brought here, in which case we shall know it, or he will be taken somewhere else. If he is taken somewhere else, Larapindi will have to go out to see him. Ah! What’s this?’
A servant had appeared at the gates and opened them wide. A minute later an expensive touring car crept through. The gates were closed. The car cruised away down the avenue.
‘After him,’ ordered Biggles crisply. ‘Keep the car in sight, but don’t get too close.’
‘What about the Tahil part of the partnership?’ asked Algy, as they followed the car. ‘Aren’t you interested in him?’
‘Tahil is dead,’ answered Biggles slowly. ‘He was bitten by a snake while playing golf with Larapindi. Si
nce it must have suited Larapindi remarkably well to be left alone in charge of the business, I have a feeling that there were two snakes on the links that morning. But let’s discuss that presently.’
Five minutes later it was clear that the car was heading for the dock area.
‘It looks as if he’s going to the warehouse,’ said Algy. ‘This is the direction, anyway.’
This surmise turned out to be correct. The car stopped before the main entrance of the establishment of Tahil and Larapindi. The lorry had also stopped, some distance away, but close enough for Biggles to see Larapindi alight and enter the building. The car was driven back a little way, revealing that it had a chauffeur in charge, to be parked in a narrow turning, one side of which was entirely occupied by the warehouse.
‘It looks as though he’s going to be some time, otherwise the car would have waited at the front entrance,’ remarked Biggles. ‘It’s a bigger building than I expected,’ he added, taking stock of the warehouse and its position. Not that much could be seen. The building, a vast square pile, stood alone, separated from similar warehouses which lined that side of the road by narrow streets. It fronted the main road. The rear part, which seemed to be much older than the front, which was obviously modern, overlooked the broad, turgid, Hugli River.
‘When I saw it in daylight, the place gave me the impression of being a very old building with a new front stuck on it,’ said Algy. ‘It’s pretty ramshackle at the back.’
‘Most warehouses are, or those I’ve seen,’ answered Biggles. ‘Hello, here’s another car stopping. It’s a taxi.’
The taxi pulled up at the front entrance, deposited two passengers and drove on.
‘We’re doing fine,’ murmured Biggles. ‘One of those fellows is Larapindi’s servant, the one we saw leave the house. The other must be the man he went to fetch—the man Larapindi is going to send along to replace Lal Din. Brought him in a taxi eh? Must be in a hurry. This is how I hoped it would pan out. If I’m right, Larapindi is going to give that fellow his instructions. Instructions wouldn’t be much use without the dope, so it must be kept here. This is where we take a hand. Listen everybody. Algy and Ginger will come with me. We’ve got to get into that building somehow. Bertie, you’ll take charge of the rest of the party. Leave someone here to look after the lorry. Post the others round the building to see that no one gets out. If you hear shots, or anything that sounds like a row, break in and lend a hand.’
