by W E Johns
‘You had enough money to buy yourself a nice French handbag, I see.’
‘I didn’t buy it. It was a present.’
‘Boy friend, eh?’
‘Oh, no. There was nothing like that about it,’ asserted the girl quickly. ‘I didn’t know the man from Adam. I did something to oblige him and he gave me the bag. It was easy. All I had to do was post a packet for him when I got to England.’
The smile remained on Biggles’s face but the humour went out of his eyes.
‘What was in the packet?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask.’
‘Did you show it to the Customs Officials when you landed?’
‘No. The man said there was no need.’
‘So you posted it.’
‘Yes. It was already stamped. All I had to do was drop it in the letter-box when I got to Victoria Station.’
‘Did you have to register it?’
‘No. Ordinary letter post. So it couldn’t have been anything valuable.’
‘I suppose not,’ returned Biggles casually. ‘Where did you meet this man?’
‘At Nice. I was having a cup of tea on the terrace of the Ruhl Hotel with some of the girls in the party. We were talking about going home the next day and I suppose he must have heard us. He was sitting close. Then he asked me to post the packet.’
‘Was he a Britisher?’
‘No. He was a foreigner, but he spoke English well.’
‘Nice-looking young fellow, eh?’ teased Biggles.
‘Oh, no. He was a dark, fat little man of about sixty, with a squint in one eye. Black handlebar moustaches that some of the boys in the RAF would have envied.’ The girl laughed. ‘So there was nothing like that about it.’
‘Just as a matter of interest, did he say why he didn’t want to post the packet in France?’
‘He said it would be quicker if I took it.’
‘You were travelling by train?’
‘Of course.’
‘Didn’t you point out that the quickest way would be by airmail, from Nice airport?’
‘I didn’t think of that.’
‘Did you notice who the packet was addressed to?’
‘Yes. I read the address several times. The package was in my handbag. The Customs man made me pay seventeen shillings duty on the bag.’
‘What was the address?’
‘It was easy to remember. It was to Miss Mary Jones, care of a Mr. Cermak, in the Tottenham Court Road — number a hundred and one A.’ The girl was looking worried. ‘Have I done anything wrong?’
‘Well, you should have declared the package at Customs,’ chided Biggles gently.
‘He said there was no need.’
‘Perhaps it didn’t matter,’ murmured Biggles. ‘Well, it’s been nice seeing you again. Where did you say you were working?’
‘Parkes, the furnishing people in Holborn.’
Biggles held out his hand. ‘We must meet again one day and have a chat about old times. Good-bye for now.’
‘Good-bye, sir.’
Biggles turned away and hailed a cruising taxi. ‘Drive along the Tottenham Court Road till I tell you to stop,’ he ordered.
‘Going to have a look at Mr. Cermak’s establishment?’ queried Ginger.
‘That’s the idea.’
‘You think there’s something going on?’
‘I can think of only one reason why a man should ask a completely strange girl to post a packet for him in England.’
‘He didn’t want it to be checked.’
‘That’s the obvious answer.’
‘Why didn’t he bring it himself?’
‘Too risky. Hopeless, in fact, if he happened to have a police record.’
‘Alice was indiscreet — to say the least.’
‘She’s a plain, simple, straightforward girl. That, of course, is why the man picked on her. He’d chosen his type carefully. Who would be less likely to carry contraband than a working girl doing a tour on what she can save up in the year? I’m hoping that as the packet was only posted late last night it won’t have been delivered yet.’ To the driver he called. ‘All right. This’ll do.’ He got out, paid the fare, and walked slowly along the pavement.
Mr. Cermak’s establishment turned out to be a small, unprepossessing newspaper and tobacco shop. The ‘licence to sell tobacco’ plate over the door confirmed the name, Otto Cermak.
‘Mr. Cermak may, or may not, know what he’s doing,’ said Biggles, as he walked on slowly. ‘Did you notice the letter rack inside the door? It’s an accommodation address. Many of these little shops run that sort of sideline for people who have no fixed address — or, if they have, don’t want their letters delivered at home. We’ll keep an eye on the place for a little while to see what sort of clientele Mr. Cermak relies on for his business. There’s a café over the way. We might as well sit down.’
They crossed the street, entered a rather tawdry tea-shop, and taking the window seat ordered coffee.
During the next half-hour about a score of people called at the shop. All went straight in and out, holding in their hands a newspaper or packet of cigarettes. In none of these was Biggles interested.
‘Here comes the postman,’ said Ginger suddenly.
‘That’s our cue,’ replied Biggles. Dropping some money on the table he hurried out, and dodging the traffic crossed the street. They reached the shop on the heels of the postman and followed him in.
The postman handed to the man behind the counter some letters and a small brown-paper package secured with gummed tape. ‘That’s the lot,’ he said cheerfully, and went out.
The shopkeeper pushed the mail aside and looked at Biggles enquiringly.
‘Packet of Players,’ said Biggles. He paid for the cigarettes and left the shop.
‘Nice work,’ murmured Ginger. ‘That must have been the packet Alice brought over.’
‘It would be a coincidence if it weren’t.’
‘Now what?’
‘We’ll hang around for a glance at Miss Mary Jones. I imagine we shan’t have long to wait. If that packet contains anything important she’ll soon be after it.’
‘Assuming she knows it’s here.’
‘It would be a simple matter for the man in Nice to send her a cable, worded discreetly, to tell her the packet was on its way. Not to this address, of course. It would go to her real address, under her own name.’
‘You think the Mary Jones stuff is phoney.’
‘It sounds like a name of convenience. Hello! What’s this?’
A nearly new Austin had pulled into the curb a few doors farther along. A dark, attractive-looking woman of middle age, simply but expensively dressed, got out.
Without looking right or left she walked quickly to the shop and emerged a moment later still in the act of putting the package in her handbag.
She returned to the car, got in and drove off.
‘CYR199,’ read Ginger, taking the number of the car. ‘Aren’t you going to follow it?’
‘No. If that lady is what I suspect she is she would always be on the look-out for anyone following her. We’ll go to the Yard and have a word with Inspector Gaskin of ‘C’ Department. This is really his affair more than ours.’ Biggles raised his hand to a taxi.
A quarter of an hour later they were in the office of the burly, pipe-smoking detective. ‘What’s on your mind?’ he inquired.
‘Nothing much,’ answered Biggles. ‘The other day, though, you told me you had something on yours.’
‘Too true I have. This smuggling racket is getting me down. You know something?’ asked the inspector shrewdly.
‘Possibly. While we’re talking you might look up Austin Ten, registered CYR199.’
The Inspector put the enquiry through on the inter-com and turned back to Biggles, who asked: ‘Does this smuggling that worries you take any particular form?’
‘Dope and diamonds are the big stuff.’
‘If you can’t catch your bi
rds how do you know it’s going on?’
‘Partly through our agents and partly by casual information.’
‘What do you mean by casual information?’
‘I’ll give you an example. About two months ago a man very much in the public eye was in Paris with his wife. In one of the high-class jewellers in the Rue de la Paix the wife saw a diamond and emerald bracelet. Price, about five thousand. The lady wanted it, and the husband was prepared to buy it for her regardless of the fact that purchase tax and import duty would about double that figure. The Currency Control Board refused to grant the money and that was that. The lady didn’t get her bangle. When, not long afterwards, at a big reception in London, she saw it on the wrist of another woman, she was very annoyed. So, naturally, was her husband. He complained to his M.P. Result, a rap for me — because that jewel never came through Customs. How it got in I don’t know. I wish I did, for this isn’t the only piece of high-class stuff that’s been slipped in under the curtain.’
‘What about the lady who now owns the bangle?’
‘There can be no question of her smuggling anything. She and her husband are a long way above that sort of thing.’
‘Couldn’t you ask her where she got it?’
‘No, because that would be an implication of suspected fraud; and in this country we have to be careful about that sort of thing. I’d stake my life that she doesn’t suspect for a moment that it was smuggled in.’
‘No question of duplication?’
‘If the firm that made that jewel duplicated their wares they’d soon be out of business. Actually, this is really the headache of the Customs and Excise people, but they expect us to handle the criminal side. Now perhaps you’d tell me what all this is leading up to?’
Before Biggles could answer a clerk came in and laid a slip on the inspector’s desk.
Gaskin glanced at it, then back at Biggles. ‘The car that has provoked your curiosity belongs to the Contessa di Malliori.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘If you read the Society news you’d know she’s a well-known hostess in London. Italian by birth. Came to this country during the Mussolini regime and has been here ever since. She has a swish place in Regent’s Park. You’ll see her name among the guests at every important function.’
‘If she’s been here for so long what does she use for money?’
The inspector looked pained. ‘You’re not suggesting—?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything. I asked a simple question. Knowing what it costs me to live, and I’m a man of simple tastes, I wondered what size of an income flows into the Contessa’s pockets for her to maintain her standard of luxury. But let that pass. As an alien you’ll have a docket on her.’
‘Yes.’
‘And a photograph?’
‘I expect so.’
‘May I see it?’
The inspector phoned again. ‘I hope you’re going to justify this expenditure of valuable time, my lad,’ he told Biggles.
‘If I can’t I shall have wasted my own,’ answered Biggles drily.
The docket was brought. Biggles looked at the photograph, and with a curious smile showed it to Ginger. ‘Very interesting,’ he murmured, passing it back to the inspector. ‘Pretty name, Contessa Malliori. Fancy swopping it for Mary Jones!’
‘What are you talking about?’ muttered the inspector irritably.
Biggles considered the request. ‘No — it’s a pity to have to leave a story half told. I’ll see if I can finish it. But before I go, may I have a look through your rogues’ gallery? The Italian division.’
‘Not expecting to find the Countess in it by any chance ? ‘
‘No,’ admitted Biggles. ‘She’d be the last person you’d suspect of running contraband. Well, almost the last.’
The implication was not lost on the inspector. His shrewd eyes searched Biggles’s face. ‘At least tell me this,’ he pleaded. ‘Who, in your opinion, would be the very last person?’
Biggles’ eyes twinkled. ‘Never mind me. The last person the Customs Officers would suspect of carrying a jewel worth five thousand pounds would be a simple English working girl travelling in a Cook’s Tour on what she could put by for the holidays. Am I right?’
‘Is that how it’s being done?’
‘It could be.’
A large album of photographs was brought in and put on the table. As Biggles slowly turned the pages he asked: ‘Any of these ladies and gentlemen would, I imagine, be searched on entering this country?’
‘They couldn’t hope to smuggle a brass farthing.’
Biggles stopped turning. Looking over his shoulder, Ginger looked down at a fleshy, elderly man, with a swarthy face, handlebar moustaches and a cast in one eye. Below was the name and particulars. Carlo Antonio Barrosa. Born Sicily 1895.
Biggles looked up at the inspector. ‘Do you happen to know in what part of Italy the Contessa was born?’
‘In Sicily, I believe.’
Biggles smiled. ‘The plot thickens, as the books say,’ he said softly. He closed the album and picked up his hat. ‘We’ll follow the trail a little farther,’ he murmured. ‘If it turns out to be the right one I’ll tell you where to send your boys along with the handcuffs. So long. Come on, Ginger.’
Little was said on the way home. Reaching the apartment Biggles tossed his hat aside and dropped into an easy chair. Suddenly he grinned. ‘We’ve had quite a morning, haven’t we? Alice Hall certainly started something. We’ve gone pretty fast, too, but this, I fancy, is where we begin to slow down.’
‘You’re going through with it, then?’
‘Too true I am. It’s on account of these smugglers that decent people have to be searched when they enter or leave the country. Aside from that I think it’s monstrous that a dupe should be made of a nice girl like Alice Hall. We know she acted in good faith. But the Customs people are tough. They have to be. Had that packet been found on Alice she would have probably have gone to gaol.’
‘What do we do next?’
‘Let’s run over what we know. Smuggling on a big scale is rife. High on the list of contraband is expensive jewellery which, weighing practically nothing, is hard to detect. Yesterday Alice Hall came through with something – we don’t know what: obviously she was innocent of fraud or she wouldn’t have told us about it. The packet was given to her in Nice by one Carlo Antonio Barrosa, a Sicilian with a criminal record. It was collected over here by another Sicilian, a woman using the name of Mary Jones. The hookup of nationalities might be coincidence, of course. Barrosa and the Contessa may have known each other in Sicily, which is not a very large island. The title may not be genuine. Even if it is it means little, for in Italy Contessas are two a penny. If our suspicions are correct, this lady is now in possession of a valuable piece of jewellery. She will, we may suppose, sell it at a profit, a nice profit too, bearing in mind that no duty was paid on it. To whom will she sell it? To a jeweller? No. That would be asking for trouble. No jeweller with that amount of money would dare to handle stuff as hot as that. In fact, the jewel could hardly be sold publicly at all, for if it were, questions would be asked about it. This is no cheap trinket. Very well. What other way is there of disposing of it? My guess is that the Countess will sell it privately through her connections in high society – which doesn’t mean, of course, that the buyer will suspect anything illegal in the deal. In a word, it looks to me as if this is how the Countess manages to live in style. This morning’s consignment wasn’t the first, you may be sure.’
‘What beats me,’ put in Ginger, ‘is that Barrosa was prepared to entrust the goods to an unknown girl.’
‘I don’t think there was much risk attached to that,’ declared Biggles. ‘The average person is honest and reliable in such matters. Alice, for instance. She would have gone to untold trouble to fulfil her obligation. As for Customs, the risk was negligible, and therein lies the clever part of the scheme. The person carrying the contraband would be unaware of it. Custom
s Officers are trained for their job. They have eyes like hawks. A hesitant answer, or a glib one; the flicker of an eyelid; a mere suspicion of nervousness and they’ve got you. As they haven’t time to search everyone to the skin it is upon such signs that they rely. If the person carrying contraband is unaware of it such signs are not forthcoming. We’ve been through Customs a good many times but we’ve never been searched. Why? Because we had nothing to declare. If ever you are fool enough to try to bring something in you might find it a very different story.’
‘I’ll remember it,’ promised Ginger. ‘Where do we go from here?’
‘The first thing is to find out what is in these packages that are coming over, and that may not be as easy as it sounds.’
‘But the Post Office has only to open the next packet addressed to Miss Mary Jones, and—’
‘They may refuse to do that. A dim view is taken of any interference with the Royal Mail. Suppose they did cooperate and a jewel was found. What then? Barrosa, being in France, would get away with it. And the Contessa would disclaim all knowledge of the packet, which, after all, isn’t addressed to her under her own name. The crooks would simply lose a jewel, which they can well afford, and then think out another scheme. No. We’ve got to get them red-handed, with the goods on them. I have a feeling that to get both of them in the bag we shall have to start at the other end, which means bringing Marcel Brissac, of the French Sûreté, into the picture. Barrosa is, of course, breaking the French law as well as ours. Just a minute. Let me think about this.’
Biggles was silent for some time, deep in thought, but at last he looked up. ‘I think I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘Let’s run over to Paris and have a word with Marcel. When we’ve got the Nice end tied up we’ll see Gaskin. I’ll tell you the set-up on the way.’
Three days later a rather prim-looking Englishwoman strolled on to the terrace of the Ruhl Hotel, Nice, and sitting at one of the small round tables ordered tea. It was not by accident that she chose a table near the one occupied by Carlo Barrosa, for she was, in fact, a policewoman from the Yard’s special squad and she had studied the Sicilian’s photograph well before she had started.
