by W E Johns
In a few minutes, Barrosa having found an opening, they were in conversation. Soon afterwards he moved his chair to her table. An hour later they were still talking, Barrosa with great earnestness. Presently she looked at her watch. They both got up.
Barrosa was in the act of handing over a small package when two men who had been standing talking not far away closed in on him swiftly, one on either side.
The Italian must have realized instantly what was happening for he was off in a flash, only to run into the arms of a waiting gendarme. Cursing and struggling he was secured and brought face to face with the Englishwoman. In front of half a dozen police witnesses the package was opened carefully and eyes saucered as she lifted out of it a magnificent diamond necklace.
Still cursing Barrosa was led away.
The British police agent carefully re-wrapped the package at the Commissariat de Police before being taken in a police car to the railway station.
When the boat train drew into Victoria the next evening she dropped the packet in the station letter-box.
The morning following saw an unusual amount of activity both inside and outside the little newsagent’s shop in the Tottenham Court Road. Two window cleaners were at work near the door. A burly figure in a dark suit, smoking a pipe, was sorting some magazines with the help of an assistant. Mr. Cermak, rather pale, was dragging nervously on a cigarette. ‘Why don’t you tell me what it is all about, Inspector,’ he complained. ‘I don’t know anything. I swear it. I’d help the police.’
‘Just carry on with your work. Remember what I told you, and try not to look as if I was going to bite you,’ growled Inspector Gaskin.
This masquerade did not last long. A few customers called for newspapers or cigarettes. The postman delivered some letters and a small package. A few minutes later an Austin Ten drew up and a good-looking, well-dressed woman entered.
‘Have you anything for Miss Mary Jones?’ she inquired.
‘Are you Miss Mary Jones?’ asked the shopkeeper.
‘Of course I am. You know that perfectly well,’ answered the woman, with a touch of asperity.
Cermak handed over the packet. ‘Is this yours?’
The woman read the address. ‘Yes, this is mine,’ she said curtly. ‘You should know me by this time.’ She caught her breath sharply as she glanced behind her and saw four men standing there. The colour drained from her face.
‘Excuse me, madam,’ said Inspector Gaskin. ‘I am an officer from Scotland Yard and I must see the contents of that packet. Four witnesses have heard you say that you are Miss Mary Jones and that the package is yours.’
The Contessa di Malliori did not answer. She had fainted. ‘Get her inside,’ said the inspector crisply.
Biggles was looking through his morning mail when the phone rang. He picked up the receiver, and a slow smile spread over his face as he listened. ‘That was Gaskin,’ he told Ginger as he hung up. ‘They’re both in the bag.’
‘What was in the packet?’
‘A diamond necklace which has been identified as part of a big jewel raid recently in one of the swagger villas in the South of France. It’ll be some time, I fancy, before the Countess gives any more of her famous parties. And all because I happened to bust a suspender! Queer how things work out, isn’t it?’
[Back to Contents]
NIGHT FLIGHT
‘We shall have to do something about these missing machines, Bigglesworth.’ The eyes that Air Commodore Raymond, head of the Air Section at Scotland Yard, turned to meet those of his chief operational pilot, were sombre with worry.
‘Not another?’
‘Yes. Word has just come through. One of the new Planets belonging to Orient Airways.’
‘Where did it happen this time?’
‘Same place. Over the Eastern Mediterranean. London-Cyprus night service. Mostly freight and mails for the troops in the Middle East. The radio operator spoke to Nicosia at eleven. All was well. Weather fine. Machine running on time. After that, silence. Searchers report not a trace. That’s the fourth machine gone in a month, all in the same area. Don’t tell me it’s coincidence. What’s going on?’
‘Your guess should be as good as mine.’
‘If it goes on, the House will ask the Air Minister why — and he’ll ask me. What am I going to tell him?’
Biggles smiled cynically. ‘Tell him that if it continues machines will run empty and the route will have to pack up. People are getting scared. Aside from which, insurance rates will go up beyond economic limits. As it is, the premiums on these big new machines make it almost impossible to run them at a profit. Insurance companies will stand for flying risks, but not sabotage.’
‘You think it might be — sabotage ? ‘
‘Frankly, no. But they may think so. A machine in the drink is no use to anyone. An aircraft with a certificate of airworthiness is worth money — a lot of money. Second-hand machines are big business. There are too many little countries between here and the Orient that couldn’t afford new stuff even if it were available; but they’ll pay cash for anything on wings, delivered and no questions asked. Obsolete service transports, stripped of military equipment, have been showing big profits; but there are not many of them left.’
‘What exactly are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that a new Planet, costing a quarter of a million, delivered behind the Iron Curtain, should be worth at least £50,000.’
‘Have you any reason for making that statement?’
‘M.I.5 have a report that British and U.S. types have been seen working on the Red Route between the Near East and China. The machines that have disappeared were all East-bound. They all carried mail and freight, mostly military, for Cyprus and the Canal Zone.’
‘Then you think someone is pirating these machines?’
Biggles shrugged. ‘Why not? There’s nothing easier to steal than an aircraft if you know how to fly it and have somewhere to take it. A ship needs a crew. A car can’t be got out of the country. An aircraft, handled by one man, can be a thousand miles off its course before it’s missed. Once the pilot is knocked out what can the passengers do about it? Nothing.’
‘And what happens to the passengers?’
‘What happens to anyone on the wrong side of the Curtain? Don’t ask me. You should know.’
‘That’s a grim thought.’
‘We live in grim times.’ Biggles looked hard at the Air Commodore. ‘Had we any particular interest in these passengers?’ he questioned meaningly.
Raymond hesitated. ‘Unfortunately, yes. On the last occasion a Queen’s Messenger was on board. That might be coincidence.’
‘And it might not. He would be carrying important documents, of course.’
‘Yes. That makes the loss all the more lamentable.’
‘It also makes the machine a more valuable prize — in the right place.’
The Air Commodore did not answer.
Biggles went on: ‘Having got away with a machine the pirate comes back to Western Europe and repeats the performance. It’s as easy as that.’
‘All right. Let’s say we’ve agreed on that,’ said the Air Commodore curtly. ‘What are we going to do about it?’
‘Obviously, we shall have to nail this modern Captain Kidd.’
‘How? He’ll carry false papers. We can’t cross-check the passport of every passenger. Most of them are foreigners. It would take too long. People fly because they’re in a hurry.’
‘He must be caught on the job.’
‘Are you suggesting that we arm all pilots and air crews? The passengers, if there were any, would take a dim view of that.’
‘No. It isn’t practicable. It wouldn’t work, anyway. The pirate would shoot first. I’d better take over one of the machines and find out what’s happening.’
‘How can you tell which machine will be the next one selected?’
Biggles smiled faintly. ‘I’ll select it myself.’
‘How?’
‘By dangling a bait no crook could resist. Gold. Fascinating stuff, gold. Let the Press know that on a certain date a certain aircraft will be carrying £100,000 in bullion to the Mid-East. It might as well be another Planet on the Cyprus run. I’ll fly the machine with my own crew in ten days’ time. That’ll give the pirate a chance to get back here and organize the raid. We’ll repeat the programme till he takes the lure. Even if the scheme doesn’t work we stand to lose nothing.’
‘Only your lives.’
‘That’s what policemen are paid for.’
‘Okay. We’ll try it. Anything you want?’
‘I’d like to see the passenger lists of the machines that have disappeared.’
‘I’ll get them for you.’
‘Fair enough. I shall be ready when you are.’
The Planet droned on and on monotonously under a starlit sky high above a tenuous layer of mist that bid the world from view. In the cabin the ten passengers had fallen silent.
Some were dozing. In the luggage compartment, with their luggage that had been carefully checked by Customs officers at the airport, were the sealed boxes which, according to the newspapers, contained gold destined for the Middle East.
In the rear seat of the cabin, in a steward’s uniform, sat Air-Constable ‘Ginger’ Hebblethwaite, his eyes roving restlessly over the heads in front of him. Over and over again he considered each in turn, speculating on the likelihood of the pirate being among them. He knew them all by name, by age and by profession — at least, according to the particulars shown on their passports. Like most long-distance bookings it was a cosmopolitan list. A check with previous lists had revealed nothing, no clue, no duplication.
In the front seats, on either side of the gangway, were two youngish American journalists bound for Suez and the Canal Zone to cover operations for their respective papers. They had asked particularly for the front seats. Had there been a sinister reason for that or did they merely think the seats were the most comfortable? Only they knew. For a time they had talked loudly, harshly, in slick American vernacular, drinking whiskies and sodas. They were quiet now.
Behind them sat a South African and his wife, returning home after a holiday in Britain. The man seemed restless, fidgeting in his seat and trying to see through the window.
Next behind them were a political officer posted to the Sudan, and an immaculate, sleek spice merchant calling at Cyprus before going on to Corinth. Behind again came the representative of a Turkish tobacco firm, en route for Istanbul, and a Swiss engineer going to Abyssinia. Both looked types who might be able to fly.
Finally, there was a German film director, on his way to Upper Egypt to make a desert picture. His wife was with him. The man was middle-aged, with a taciturn but clever face. The woman, a blonde, had been pretty, but had rather gone to seed, putting on too much weight.
Thus soliloquized Ginger, watching them all.
By his right hand was a special installation. It was a switch. A touch would flash a red light on the instrument panel where Biggles and Algy Lacey sat at the controls, and in the radio compartment where Air-Constable Bertie Lissie was on duty.
Ginger’s orders were simple and explicit. Should any passenger approach the bulkhead door at the forward end of the cabin the warning light was to be flashed.
He looked at his watch, and then spoke loudly and clearly over the intercom. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are now leaving the coast on the eastern side of the Italian Peninsular. There is fine weather ahead and we are running on time. Thank you.’
Some of the passengers stirred slightly. Others took no notice. One of the Americans called: ‘There’s still plenty of fog below.’
‘A wide front covers Europe from the Mediterranean to Scotland,’ answered Ginger glibly.
Silence fell. Ginger’s nerves tingled with an anticipation from which apprehension was not entirely absent. The time had come. If anything was going to happen it could not be long delayed. With the note of its engines unchanged the Planet roared on into what, according to the timetable, was the danger zone. In flying circles it had become known as Suicide Creek.
Five minutes passed. Ten. Nothing happened. Most of the passengers appeared to be asleep. The German’s head slumped forward. He snored gently. His wife picked up a newspaper and read, holding the pages close to her face as if she were short-sighted.
Why doesn’t she wear glasses? thought Ginger.
He yawned. The atmosphere was conducive to sleep. It always is on a long run. The motors hum a lullaby. Boredom closed eyes. He watched, fighting drowsiness.
It struck him suddenly that the German woman was a long time reading the paragraph before her eyes. Was she reading or was she asleep? He stared.
Was the position of her head quite natural? Was the corner of the paper being lowered surreptitiously so that she could look over it; or was his imagination playing tricks? Certainly the movement was so slight that had he not been watching closely it would have passed unnoticed.
Whatever the reason, Ginger’s nerves grew taut with a consciousness of impending danger, all the more disturbing because they were where they were; but the feeling would not be shaken off. His eyes raced over the passengers. None was moving. They returned to the German woman. He leaned forward until he could see her face. It was black.
Dragging himself up, for his limbs were suddenly strangely weak, he stumbled as if by accident and knocked the newspaper aside. Then he understood. She was wearing a gas mask.
On seeing that she was discovered the woman tried to fend him away, but he seized the mask and tore it off. A blow from the man behind made him stagger, but he reached the danger switch and flashed it on. The German, also masked, came at him, his hand groping at his hip pocket. But Ginger was first with his gun. It spat. The man crumpled.
The woman screamed. Ginger’s gun flashed to cover her. She flung up her arms crying ‘Nein! Nein!’
By this time pandemonium reigned. Pushing their way with scant ceremony through the other passengers who had sprung up in alarm at the sound of the shot came Biggles, closely followed by Bertie.
Ginger shouted ‘Look out. It’s gas!’
The woman’s hand was fumbling under her blouse.
Ginger, thinking she was feeling for a weapon, turned his automatic again; but she cried, ‘Not shoot. I only turn off the gas,’ and dropped into her seat, wild-eyed, panting.
Then Ginger understood why she was so fat. He told Biggles what had happened. ‘I grabbed her mask to make her switch off the gas; without a mask she would have had it with the rest of us. Her partner was pulling a gun on me so I had to shoot.’
‘So that’s how it was done,’ said Biggles softly. He turned to the babbling passengers. ‘Will everyone please be seated? There has been a little trouble but it’s all over.’ He went forward.
A moment later the drone of the motors faded. The nose of the aircraft tilted down. Cold fresh air swept through the cabin. The machine dropped through the overcast and ten thousand points of light appeared below.
One of the Americans sprang up. ‘Say! Am I crazy or are those the lights of London?’
‘They are,’ Ginger told him. ‘We’ve never been out of the metropolitan area. The company tenders its apologies and will explain later. Please don’t take the delay too seriously. Another machine is standing by. You can still be in Egypt by the morning. You might have ended up somewhere quite different.’
In the radio compartment Bertie was talking to the Air Commodore, in the Control Tower.
When the Planet landed the police were waiting, with the ambulance.
[Back to Contents]
THE CASE OF THE IVORY IDOL
Air Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth had not long returned to the apartment which he shared with his police pilots, after a conference at Scotland Yard, when the housekeeper announced that two gentlemen were below, asking to see him. She couldn’t catch their names, but from their faces she judged them to be people from some outlandish part of the worl
d.
When, a minute later, the visitors were shown into the sitting-room, it became evident that, although the callers wore well-cut European clothes, they were from Asia.
Biggles pulled forward two chairs. ‘Be seated, gentlemen,’ he invited. ‘What’s your trouble?’
‘Trouble?’
‘Strangers only come to see me when they have something on their minds,’ said Biggles sadly.
The visitors, both of middle age, saw no humour in this. Their yellow-brown faces remained impassive, their dark eyes dull.
‘Are you the famous Colonel Bigglesworth?’ inquired one, cautiously.
‘The name is right, but the rank is somewhat flattering,’ returned Biggles, smiling. ‘No matter. By whom are we honoured?’
‘I am the Prince Yuan Sukang and this is my cousin and Prime Minister, the honourable Mr. Kling. We are from the state of Kahore, which, in case you do not know — for ours is a small country — lies on the northern frontiers of Burma and Thailand.’
‘You speak English very well,’ complimented Biggles. ‘I gather you have not always lived in Kahore.’
The Prince hesitated. ‘I had an English tutor, and was for a time in London,’ he explained.
‘Ah!’ breathed Biggles. ‘Quite so. Now tell me; in what way do you think I can help you?’
‘You will have heard that my country, like the countries around it— Burma, Thailand and Indo-China — are in a state of chaos, of revolution and evil war.’
‘So I read in the newspapers. In that case why have you come to London?’
‘There is nothing I can do in Kahore. Law and order is finished. The villages are destroyed. Terrorists beset even the jungle paths. Famine and disease stalk the land. The people die.’
‘Your people?’ murmured Biggles softly.
‘Yes.’
‘And there is nothing you can do for them?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What, then, do you think I can do? Is it that you want to go back?’
‘We have come to see you because there is something in Kahore which we would much like to have here.’
