by W E Johns
“It might have been a dud,” suggested Ginger.
Biggles shook his head. “Oh no. That one was genuine enough. There’s no purpose in a faked bribe; It would do more harm than good.”
“You sly old fox,” murmured Bertie.
The corners of Biggles’ mouth twitched. “It’s a sad thing to grow old without learning a thing or two.”
Algy was still looking at the cigar and its deadly charge. It seemed to worry him. “If they know we’re here, and what we’re doing, they won’t just let it go at that,” he observed. “We’d better start looking for another home before they come back with bigger and better cigars.”
Biggles nodded. “I think you’ve got something there,” he agreed. “But flitting may not be as simple as it sounds. From now on this house will be watched. For their own security the enemy will have to know where we are. If we leave here they’ll see us go. Still, there may be a way of showing them our tail-skid before they can bring their guns to bear. I’ll think it over. Then we’ll start to get organized.”
“What exactly do you mean by organized?” inquired Ginger.
“Well, talking of gangs, I seem to remember that during the war we had quite a useful all-round gang ourselves. We might do worse than get it together again. In fact, I could find a use for one of the gang right now.”
“Which one?”
“Tug Carrington. He was, you may remember, handy with what he called his ‘dukes’. He rang me up the other day for a gossip about old times—I forgot to mention it. He’s taking up his old business of professional boxing. He’s in training for the middleweight championship, living in lodgings near Blackfriars Ring.”
“What’s he doing for money in the meantime?” asked Algy.
“He’s running a taxi.”
“His own?”
“Yes.”
“Where did he get it?”
“As a matter of fact, if you must know, I fixed it up for him—a sort of temporary loan.”
“Ah-huh. That’s what I thought,” murmured Ginger softly.
“And for what purpose could you use Tug right now?” asked Algy.
Biggles was standing by the window, looking down at the street through a muslin curtain. “A newspaper seller has taken up a pitch about fifty yards along on the opposite side of the road. I don’t remember having seen him before.”
“What about it?” asked Bertie.
“Nothing, except that he’s in a nice position to watch our front door.”
“Aren’t you getting a trifle suspicious?” queried Algy.
“From now on, even though we sometimes make mistakes, we’ve got to be suspicious of everybody.”
“But we were only given this assignment today.”
“And the people we are to track down are already aware of it. They aren’t going to let grass grow under their feet. The fact that we’ve had a visitor makes it clear that they are not going to wait for us to kick off when it suits us. They’ve started the ball rolling, and they’ll keep it rolling while they think there is a chance that we may get in their way.”
Ginger joined Biggles at the curtain. “Why, that’s the fellow who got in my way when I tried to take the number of Robinson’s car!” he cried.
Biggles nodded, his eyes still on the newsvendor. “I thought his arrival on the scene at this particular moment was stretching the arm of coincidence a bit far. You’ll notice he’s sitting on a box. Surely that’s unnusual? Most people in his line of business stand up. Of course, he may merely be tired; or he may feel that as he’s likely to be here for a long spell he might as well make himself comfortable. On the other hand there may be something in that box that concerns us.”
“What could be in the box?” asked Ginger curiously.
Biggles shrugged. “Guessing is usually futile, but if I was asked to guess I’d say that it could be a radio, so that he could let his boss know when we go out.”
“ Here, I say, old boy, that’s going rather far—if you see what I mean?” protested Bertie. “Newspaper men aren’t radio operators.”
“You seem to forget that the fellow down there selling papers isn’t a newspaper man. The papers provide the necessary excuse for being there.”
“Of course—silly ass that I am,’ muttered Bertie.
“You were talking just now of Tug,” reminded Algy. “Where does he come into the picture?”
“I’ve always had a marked objection to being watched,” answered Biggles. “It offends my vanity. I’ve been accustomed for so long to settling arguments with guns that I’ve forgotten how to use my hands. Besides, I dislike hurting my knuckles. Tug seems to know of a way of hitting people without hurting himself. It struck me that he was just the sort of chap to—discourage, shall we say—this specious seller of newsspapers without putting us all into the dock on a charge of homicide. I’ll have a word with him. Incidentally, it must be getting on for tea time. Ginger you might see about getting some sent in. It’s likely that we shall be busy presently.”
Biggles crossed to the telephone, picked up the receiver and dialled a number.
Chapter 3
Tug Taxis In
In a couple of minutes Biggles was speaking to Tug Carrington, one time a flying officer in No. 666 (Fighter) Squadron, R.A.F., more often known in the Service as Biggles’ Squadron. Those in the room could of course only hear one end of the conversation, but as Biggles did most of the talking they were able without diffiiculty to follow the gist of it.
“Listen, Tug,” began Biggles. “Are you free at the moment? You are? Good. I want you to do a little job for me. I’m speaking from home. Yes, the others are here with me, listening. Now, this is the position. We’ve bumped into what promises to be a sticky proposition. The enemy has posted a man outside my house to watch us. I find that sort of thing rather tiresome. Unfortunately, being more or less respectable police officers we can’t do anything about it. There’s no law against watching, and if we did what we feel like doing we ourselves should be breaking the law... exactly. That’s where you come in. I want you to bring your cab along in one hour from now with the petrol tank topped up ready for a longish run. The fellow watching us is selling newspapers, but that’s only an excuse for being there. When you stop outside our door I think it’s likely that he’ll come over to have a good look at you. If he doesn’t—well, you can go over to him. Either way, your job is to put him out of the picture for a little while. How you do it is your business—as long as you don’t kill the fellow. You will then drive us away. We shall be standing by with our kits packed ready to move off. Is that clear? Fine. We shall expect you at six o’clock precisely. The time is now four-fifty. Yes, I’ll tell you all about it later on. That’s all for now. See you presently. So long.”
Biggles hung up.
Half turning from the instrument he remarked: “Tug says this is exactly what the doctor ordered. He’s pulled a muscle in his calf and has had to lay off training for a while. It seems to have peeved him. His temper isn’t exactly what you would call placid at the best of times—but you know what he’s like when anything annoys him. Unless I’ve missed my guess, our snooping friend over there on the pavement is due to collide with what he may think is a stray atomic bomb.” Biggles turned back to the telephone and dialled another number.
“Why are you calling the Yard?” asked Ginger, who was watching.
“I shall have to tell the Air Commodore what we are doing,” returned Biggles.
After a brief delay he was through. “Bigglesworth here, sir,” he reported. “We’ve decided to move to operational quarters... yes, I know it’s a bit sudden, but we’ve already had a visitor. He thought he was in a Woolworth Store and tried to buy us... offered quite a lot of money, too. When I turned him down he presented me with a cigar with a squib in it. It means that too many people know what we’re doing, so we’ve decided to amble away while the going’s good. The enemy has planted an observation post outside, but we can deal with that. The airfield I sh
ould like to use is Delmar, in Hertfordshire. The service has closed down there leaving only a care and maintenance party. That will suit us fine. There are machines there we can use while we’re getting our own equipment organized. There should be petrol and surface transport available should we need it. Communications with London, both by radio and private wire, should still be functioning. If that’s okay with you I’d like you to make the necessary arrangements with the Air Ministry. For the time being they will have to take us on their strength for rations. How long shall we be there? I’ve no idea, sir. Things are already moving so it may not be for long. That’s fine. We’ll keep in touch with you as far as possible, but don’t let it worry you if we fade out for a while. Yes... yes... right you are, sir. Good—bye.” Biggles hung up.
“Well, that’s that,” he observed turning again to the others. “Raymond says he’ll do the necessary.”
“Then we push off for Delmar at six, in Tug’s cab?” queried Algy.
“That’s the idea. Pack up. We shall travel light, the lighter the better, so a bag apiece will have to do.”
At this juncture tea was brought in. Chairs were pulled to the table.
“This will probably be our last meal here for some time,” remarked Biggles.
“You mentioned just now that you had a plan—or rather, an idea?” prompted Ginger. “How about letting us in on it?”
Biggles sipped his tea. “We are only supposed to cover the air angle of this business,” he said thoughtfully. “If there is no air angle then we drop out of it; but Raymond is convinced that air transportation is the mainspring of the racket, and I must say that I agree with him. It’s hard to see how the thing could be done by surface craft. The first thing I did therefore, when I got home from the conference, was to sit down and do some serious thinking, turning over in my mind all the gossip I have heard recently about aviation generally. Next, I condensed all the possibilities into three simple sections. This is how I worked it out. Number one. The racket might be worked by unregistered aircraft creeping about, possibly after dark. Number two. One of the proper air transport companies might be used by the gang—without the knowledge of the company officials, of course. Number three. The establishment of a special air line by the crooks, ostensibly operating for the public, but in reality working for themselves. Number one seemed the most likely. Number two I didn’t care for, because knowing how tight the customs regulations are I couldn’t see how the crooks could get away with it—certainly not for any length of time. Number three was, I thought, ambitious, but bearing in mind the size of the racket, well within the bounds of possibility. Having got my lists settled I rang up Crasher Doyle at Air Intelligence and asked him if he had had any reports of unofficial flights, or unidentified aircraft snooping round the coast. He said no. Moreover, he was quite definite about it. Apparently radar is still in operation, and he assured me that no strange aircraft could get in or out of the country without being spotted and monitored. That practically disposed of number one on the list. I passed over number two because I thought it was the least likely, which left me with number three. To examine this would I thought be a long and tedious task, but it turned out to be easier than I expected. You might well say, how could an operating company, running on crooked lines, continue to function without being found out? The answer to that is, until today no one has had any reason to suppose that anything underhand was going on. Even now the man in the street would hardly know where to look for signs of funny business. But aviation happens to be our job. We’ve run a charter service of our own, so we know from practical experience what can and what cannot be done, what is commmercially possible and what is not.”
“Robinson said his people were running an airline,” reminded Ginger.
“I know, and it may be true; but it would be foolish to put any reliance in statements made by the enemy,” replied Biggles. “I had already turned the beam on that possibility before Robinson came. I decided that if these crooks are running their own air line then it must have been started fairly recently. According to the Air Trades Directory, during the past twelve months eleven new air transportation companies have been registered. Five were sponsored by the governnments of the countries concerned, so we can rule those out. Of the remaining six, two are subsidiaries of old established shipping lines, and another is owned by a railway company. Those can be crossed off, too. That leaves us with three. One is Air Freight Limited, of which our old friend Wilks is a director. He wouldn’t stand for any shady business, so that one goes out, leaving two. Of these, one operates only in the southern hemisphere, so by the time-honoured process of elimination we find ourselves with one name on our list.” Biggles paused to pour himself another cup of tea.
“This last company is a concern called Stellar Skyways Incorporated,” he continued. “It’s no ordinary company. Indeed an examination of its activities reveals so many unusual features that I doubt if I shall have time to go into them in detail now. Curiously enough, it had already aroused my interest, and the other day I did a little checking up when, for the third time recently, I had occasion to make an entry in its docket in the air reference library which we are keeping at the Yard. Raymond asked me to start one, you remember. Mind you, none of these items would have any special significance in the ordinary way; but it’s part of our business to keep an eye on everything that happens in aviation. The first item introduces an old friend of ours, Johnny Crisp. I ran into him in Piccadilly about a month ago. He was out of a job. He told me he had been working for a show called Stellar Skyways, but had given it up. When I asked him why, he growled and said, ‘It stinks.’ Just what he meant by that I don’t know; he was in a hurry and I hadn’t time to ask him. Item number two was a report which appeared in the papers about three weeks ago. There was a paragraph to the effect that Brigadier-General Sir Henry Carding had been killed by a lion whilst on a big game hunting trip in Central Africa. He had, the report concluded, been a member of a tour conducted by Stellar Skyways. I’ll come back to this tour business later on. Item number three was a rather curious business. You may remember it. The thing happened about three months ago. A machine belonging to Stellar Skyways crashed during a sandstorm someewhere in Upper Egypt. There were a pilot and two passengers on board. The pilot was unhurt but the two passengers were killed. But the queer part of the busiiness was this. The crash was first reported by some natives who said the machine was down in the desert. It had not caught fire. British Overseas Airways sent a relief machine down from Khartoum. When it reached the spot, some twenty-four hours after the crash, the machine was burnt out. The two passengers were also burnt. The wreckage was still smoking. It was obvious to the B.O.A.C. pilot that the machine must have caught fire a good while after the crash, which is unusual but not impossible. In fact, the Stellar pilot admitted it at the subsequent inquiry. His explanation as to why his passengers were still inside sounded a bit lame, but again, it might have been true. He said that having got out, they went back into the cabin to take shelter from the sun. It was the only shade available. It struck me at the time as a bit odd that two perfectly fit men were unable to get out of the cabin before they were overtaken by the flames. However, that was the pilot’s story, and as there was no other witness it had to be accepted. So much for my personal knowledge of Stellar Skyways. All we can say is, none of these incidents reflected credit on the company. As a result of them I dug out some more facts about the show, getting most of my information from the trade papers and the company’s own advertisements.” Biggles glanced at his watch. “I’ll tell you more about it later, when we get to Delmar. I’ve asked the Air Commodore to collect all the information available. Meanwhile it’s a quarter to six. We’d better see about getting packed. Then we’ll stand by for Tug. His arrival should be worth watching.”
In ten minutes four valises were lying in the hall. Final arrangements for departure were made, after which, Biggles, with the others beside him, took up a position at the window overlooking the street. T
he seller of newspapers was still there, at the same place, selling an occasional paper when accosted; but for the most part he seemed content to sit on his box, a rough deal case about two feet square which looked like an “empty” from a grocer’s shop.
At six o’clock precisely a taxi cruised down the street and came to a stop under the window. The driver stepped down to the pavement. He was hatless, wore rather shabby grey flannel trousers, and a polo sweater of the same colour under an old sports jacket. With hands thrust into his pockets, balanced on his toes, he looked up and down the street.
Biggles laughed softly. “You could pick Tug out of a million by that attitude of his,” he murmured. “He reminds me somewhat of an angry terrier.”
“And here, comes our snooper to sell him a paper!” exclaimed Ginger joyfully. Talk about stop-me-and-buy-one. He little knows what he’s about to buy.”
What followed was comic—for the spectators. For them it was over all too quickly.
“Buy a paper, guv’nor?” offered the newsvendor, flourishing a copy.
Tug dropped into a half crouch, eyeing the man with frosty hostility. He pointed an accusing finger. “Why, you’re the rat who pinched my wallet the other night,” he challenged.
The man looked astonished—as well he might. “That’s a lie,” he denied indignantly.
Tug, on his toes, took a pace forward. “So I’m a liar, am I?”
The man, sensing danger, dropped his papers and began to back away. Losing his nerve he tried to bolt, but Tug’s foot shot out in a neat trip and he measured his length on the pavement. He was up instantly, but he would have done better had he stayed down. Tug’s fist met his jaw with a crack that could be heard by those above. The man went down again, and this time he stayed down.
“You’ve had it, chum,” murmured Bertie with a chuckle.
“Come on,” ordered Biggles, who was watching. “It’s time we were away.”
