by W E Johns
“‘Twenty six million pounds in “dud” notes made in Germany. Forged notes with a face value of twenty six million pounds have been found at Freising, Germany, in twenty three cases.... Ex-prisoners at a factory at Badischl admitted that seven printing machines and two photographic machines were in use.’”
He laid the paper aside. “Similar printing presses might have been installed anywhere. It is pretty certain that the gang is working on international lines. What other countries are doing about it I don’t know.”
“What are we doing, if it comes to that?” inquired Ginger.
Biggles shrugged. “The position at the moment, as far as we are concerned, is this. The government, naturally, has detailed the Yard to protect British interests both at home and abroad. The Commissioner assigned the job to Raymond who, being of opinion that aircraft form the mainspring of the business, pushed the thing on to me—or perhaps I should say, to us. As usual he has given us a free hand—not that it would be any use starting on a job of this size any other way. We can do what we like, go where we like, and spend what we like within reason.”
“And where are we going to start?” asked Ginger, a suspicion of sarcasm in his voice.
“That,” answered Biggles frankly, “is what I was wondering when you came in. I haven’t been idle.”
“Does that mean you’ve got a plan?”
“I would hardly call it a plan,” demurred Biggles. “Call it an idea. We’ve got to...”
He broke off abruptly as there came a knock on the door, then raised a finger for silence. “I wasn’t expecting a visitor,” he said softly. “This looks a bit like a conference. Bertie, Ginger, perhaps you wouldn’t mind marking time in the bedroom for a little while. It’ll make less of a crowd.” He waited until the door had half-closed behind them, then called, “Come in!”
The hall door opened and a man stood on the threshold. With movements that were slow and deliberate he took a pace into the room, transferred a bowler hat which he held in his right hand to his left, already holding a furled umbrella, and closed the door behind him. This done he turned again to face the room.
* * *
1 See Sergeant Bigglesworth, C.I.D.
2 To be clueless, or ‘without a clue’ is R.A.F. slang, implying that the person referred to is mentally defective.
3 “Round the bend.” R.A.F. slang meaning slightly mad.
Chapter 2
The Velvet Glove
THROUGH the crack of the bedroom door Ginger regarded the visitor with a curiosity that may have been justifiable in the circumstances. Not that there was anything unusual about him. On the contrary, he was a typical prosperous-looking business man, with a confident bearing and shrewd apprizing eyes; a type common enough in London. His age might have been in the early fifties, although his hair and the heavy moustache he wore showed no signs of grey. They were in fact so black that, considered with a dark complexion, Ginger formed the opinion that while the man might be a British subject his ancestry was foreign—possibly a Latin from South America, or the Mediterranean seaboard. He was well-built although rather inclined to corpulency, suggesting that he spent more time at the table than at exercise. His general air of well-being was supported by the quality of his clothes; both the material and the cut of the dark lounge suit he wore were good. His linen was spotless, but a foreign touch revealed itself again in tightly-fitting patent-leather shoes, such as few Britishers would wear except with evening kit.
Biggles was the first to speak. “Whom did you wish to see?” he inquired.
“Bigglesworth—Squadron Leader Bigglesworth of the R.A.F., or Sergeant Bigglesworth of the C.I.D., I don’t care which.” A fleeting smile crossed the sallow face. “I guess I’m talking to him right now?”
The phraseology, Ginger noted, suggested that the man had been in America for some time, even if he were not an American citizen.
“Quite right,” answered Biggles. “I’m Bigglesworth. Won’t you sit down?”
The visitor found a chair, rested his umbrella across his knees and balanced the bowler hat on top. He glanced from Biggles to Algy and back to Biggles, raising his eyebrows.
“This is Mr. Lacey, a friend of mine,” said Biggles quietly. “You can speak freely in front of him. Go ahead.”
“I’ve come to see you—” began the man, but Biggles stopped him.
“I always like to know who I’m talking to,” he interrupted gently.
“The name’s Robinson—John Robinson,” was the smooth and ready reply, in a tone of voice that caused Ginger to suspect that not only was the name an assumed one, but the speaker intended that to be realized.
“Thank you,” murmured Biggles. “Now we’ll get on with the business that brought you here.”
“I’m the British representative of an air operating company. We—”
“Just a minute. What’s the name of this company?” interposed Biggles.
“At the moment the company is only in process of formation,” was the glib reply. “Let us for the sake of argument call it Universal Airlines Limited. I am now engaged in getting together the administrative staff. I thought you might be interested.”
“In what way?”
“Aviation is your business. You might care to come in with us.”
“That’s very nice of you, but it happens that I’m already employed,” said Biggles evenly.
“Yes, I understand that. Naturally I would check up on a man before offering him a job.”
“Then why come to me when there are plenty of good pilots looking for work?”
“They haven’t all had your experience and they haven’t all got your reputation.”
“Reputation for what?”
“Getting places.”
“I see. Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Robinson, but I’m not—”
“Just a minute. I haven’t finished yet.”
“Sorry.”
“You were going to say you didn’t want the job I had in mind for you?”
“Quite right.”
The visitor looked reproachful. “You’d turn it down before hearing what salary I was prepared to offer?”
“I don’t think that would interest me.”
“Wouldn’t ten thousand a year interest you?”
Biggles’ eyebrows went up. “It would if I thought I could justify it—honestly—which I doubt.”
“Maybe you reckon it’s too much?”
“It would be an all-time high record for a mere operational pilot,” averred Biggles drily. “Purely as a matter of curiosity, what should I be expected to do to earn that amount of money?” His eyes were on the visitor’s face.
“You’d act in an advisory capacity, chiefly. Your salary would be in the nature of a retaining fee.”
“Ah, to stop me from working for anyone else?”
“Put it that way if you like. Most people work for one concern at a time, I believe.”
“Exactly,” murmured Biggles. “I happen to be working for a concern now.”
“Then you aren’t interested in promotion?”
“Not particularly. I’m more concerned with doing what I want to do.”
“Money’s useful.”
“I discovered that quite a long time ago.”
“Then why not help yourself to some?”
“I haven’t done so badly.”
The visitor hesitated for the first time. “Suppose we stop beating about the bush?” he suggested.
Biggles shrugged. “You started the beating—not me.”
“Okay. Perhaps you’d like to name your own price? “
“That’s a dangerous offer.”
“There’s no hurry about your answer. Take a little time to think it over.”
“There are some things that don’t need thinking over and this is one of them.”
“You’d rather go on with the mug’s game you’ve just been asked to play?”
“Who said I’d just been asked to play a mug’s game?”
<
br /> “Oh, we folks who get around hear things, you know,” said the man who called himself Robinson airily.
“We hear a few things, too,” Biggles pointed out softly.
Again the visitor hesitated. He sighed. “Well, it seems a pity,” he said sadly. “You’ve got a great record behind you. Why spoil it?”
“I’ve no intention of spoiling it.”
Robinson held out a hand in a deprecatory gesture. “Where’s it got you? Where’s it getting you?”
“Surely that’s my worry?” answered Biggles curtly. “There s no need for you to saturate your pillow with tears on my account. I’ve had my fair slice of life.”
“What you mean is, you’ve let other people play with your life to fill their pockets, not yours. What have they given you? A medal or two, worth half a crown.”
“I’m not complaining.”
“What’s going to happen to you when you get too old for this risky game you’ve been playing for the last twenty years? Oh yes, we know what you’ve done. We know you’re the sort of man who really wins the wars for the people who make ‘em. We know all that, and I’m serious when I say that we should be sorry to see you hurt yourself just when you ought to be sitting back and taking things easy. Why not take care of your future?”
“I’ve managed to do that so far.”
The visitor shook his head and stood up. “Well, have it your own way. I’m sorry we can’t do business together. It was just an idea. Had it come off it would have been to our mutual advantage.”
Biggles also rose. “It was nice of you to call, Mr. Robinson. I appreciate your generosity. Yours must be a very wealthy company.”
“We aren’t short of money.”
Biggles smiled faintly. “As it happens, neither am I. We may meet again in the course of our respective jobs.”
“It could be.”
Biggles opened the door. “Good day, Mr. Robinson.”
“Good day to you, and thanks for listening to my proposition. Oh, by the way, I nearly forgot.” The visitor felt in his breast pocket and took out an envelope which he handed to Biggles.
“What’s this?” inquired Biggles, who looked surprised.
“Why not open it and see?”
In dead silence Biggles slit the envelope and withdrew the contents. It was a crisp, crackling banknote for one thousand pounds. “What’s this for?” he asked slowly.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Call it a little token of our appreciation of what you’ve done for the country.”
“Then it’s mine?”
“Absolutely.”
“To do what I like with?”
“Of course.”
“I shall find it useful.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Quite quietly Biggles folded the note into a spill.
Walking over to the fire he lighted one end and lit a cigarette.
Robinson watched this with dark, brooding eyes.
The muscles of his face tightened. “So that’s the best use you can put it to, eh?”
“This sort of money—yes.”
“Maybe you’ve lit a bigger fire with it than you know. Watch out you don’t get burnt.”
“I’ll watch it,” promised Biggles.
Suddenly, and surprisingly Ginger thought, Robinnson’s manner changed. His face creased into smiles of what appeared to be genuine amusement. He laughed. “Well, fair’s fair,” he declared. “I said the note was yours. No hard feelings, I hope? Have a cigar.” He offered an open cigar case.
Biggles took one. “Thanks,” he murmured. “A cigar is a cigar in these hard times.”
Robinson had flicked a gold petrol lighter and offered the flame.
“No, I won’t light it now,” said Biggles casually. “A smoke like this is worthy of an occasion. I shall enjoy it better after dinner.”
Robinson closed his lighter and slipped it into a waistcoat pocket. “You know best,” he averred. “There’s plenty more where that one came from, remember.”
“I shan’t forget.”
“Well, I shall have to be getting along. Good day.”
“Good day.” Biggles closed the door. For a minute he stood listening to footsteps descending the stairs, then he hurried to the window that overlooked the street.
The others joined him. As Ginger looked down he saw an expensive limousine glide across the road, a uniformed chauffeur at the wheel. He tried to see the number plate, but from his elevated position the letters and number were foreshortened.
Biggles was evidently thinking on the same lines, for he said sharply: “Ginger, slip down and get the number of that car. We may want it one day.”
Ginger ran down the stairs. Hurriedly throwing open the front door he nearly collided with a man, a rough type of workman, who was standing on the pavement. His only conspicuous feature was a cast in one eye which made it difficult to determine the precise direction in which he was interested.
“Why don’t you look where you’re goin’?” snarled the man angrily, as Ginger tried to get past.
Ginger had to make several attempts to get clear before he succeeded, and by that time the car was lost in the traffic far down the street. Annoyed, feeling that he had been frustrated, he turned to give the man who had baulked him a piece of his mind; but the man was striding down the pavement, lighting a cigarette. Realising that there was nothing he could do about it Ginger went back up the stairs and told Biggles what had happened.
Biggles did not seem surprised. He helped himself to a cigarette from the box on the table and then looked at the others. “You see what I mean?” he said softly. “Remember what I told you about the big crooks having a spy system of their own? You’ve just seen a nice example of it. This morning we were given an assignnment, perhaps the most important one we’ve had yet. Within a few hours here is a fellow at our door offering me a bribe to sell my employer and join his side. That’s what it amounted to, of course. Genuine companies can’t afford to pay their pilots ten thousand a year. I know that as well as anybody—and Robinson knew that I knew it. If the size of that bribe is any indication then it looks as if the biggest gang of all time is at work. They know the police are taking action. Although I was only given the job this morning their intelligence service has reported it to headquarters. Before the day is out their representative is here with a fat bribe to check our activities. True, he offered us the velvet glove, but the iron fist was inside it.”
“Really? I didn’t notice it,” murmured Bertie.
“I’ll show it to you,” returned Biggles. “Ginger, slip into the bathroom and bring me an old razor blade.”
Ginger went out and returned with the instrument.
Biggles took it from him, sat down at the table and reached for the cigar that Robinson had left. In silence, with great care he slit the cigar from end to end and folded the two halves back. Neatly encased in the centre was a minute glass tube. It was no thicker than a matchstick and about half as long.
Nobody spoke for a full five seconds. Then Ginger said: “What is it, do you suppose?”
“An explosive of some kind I imagine,” answered Biggles evenly. “Probably fulminate of mercury, or something of the sort. Be sure that whatever it is, the charge, had I lit the cigar, would have been sufficient to blow my head off.” Biggles pushed the cigar aside. “We’ll dispose of that presently.” He looked up. “I suppose in a way we’ve been paid a compliment. I wouldn’t flatter myself by going so far as to say that the gang is afraid of us, but they’ve as good as admitted that they’d rather have us on their side than against them. They’ll be back, of course, particularly, now they know beyond all doubt that we’ve been assigned the job of rounding them up.”
“You think they know that definitely, then?” put in Ginger.
Biggles indicated the postage stamps, the note and the magnifying glass, which still lay on the table. “Robinson would hardly fail to notice those,” he said drily. “He would know why they are here.”
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bsp; “You should have covered them up.”
Biggles collected the papers into a heap: “It makes no difference. Robinson knew of our assignment or he wouldn’t have come here.”
“Seems a pity that you had to chuck a thousand jolly old quidlets down the drain,” sighed Bertie. “It gave me a severe pain in the neck to watch that beautiful note burn to ashes.”
“Oh—that.” Biggles smiled. “It was merely a little act, a childish one perhaps, to demonstrate to the worthy Mr. Robinson our complete indifference to money. I thought it might annoy him to the extent of showing his hand more plainly. It did. He gave me a cigar which, had I smoked it, would have put me beyond the need of money for all time. That was only a try-out on his part. I can t thmk that he seriously expected me to fall for such an elementary trick. When I didn’t light the cigar he knew that the trick had failed. I didn’t want his dirty money, but I didn t see why I should give it back to him when it could be put to better use. So before burning it I memorized the number. I’ll write to the Bank of England saying that the note was burned, and put in a claim. After the statutory period has elapsed without the note turning up they’ll pay over the cash, and we’ll pass it on to St. Dunstan’s. Without knowing where it came from they’ll make good use of it, I’ll warrant.”
