by W E Johns
Kisumo had followed him out. Together, at Bertie’s suggestion, they went to Ginger’s room to make sure that he had not come back. Actually, he was hoping to see Tug. And in fact he did see him on the verandah, but he was given no chance to speak to him. Rather than take a risk he decided that it would be better to wait. No doubt there would be a better opportunity later.
Ginger was not in his room, so Kisumo strode on to the main gate. Without speaking they took the track which they had followed earlier in the day. Kisumo, as was customary, carried the rifle. Bertie would have preferred to carry it himself, but he was not in the mood to start an argument with the black, as would have happened had he asked for it.
He was seriously worried about Ginger. He could not imagine what could have detained him for so long. They had little time in which to find him, for the sun was down, and twilight fast closing in.
Striding on, they passed into the now gloomy aisles of the forest. And it was here, somewhere in the middle of the belt, that Kreeze’s strange behaviour was explained. Bertie, not expecting any such revelation, was taken unawares.
The thing began when he asked Kisumo for his rifle. It was, he knew, the hour when the larger carnivorous animals left their daylight retreats for the water-holes; there was a chance that they might encounter one at any moment and he wanted to be ready.
Kisumo, who had been leading, stopped, and turning round in the middle of the track faced Bertie from a distance of a few yards. His whole bearing had altered suddenly, and his expression with it. The respectful native had gone. An insolent negro stood in his place. Now, for the first time, when he spoke he used the drawling jargon of the American gangster.
“You won’t want this no more, brother,” he jeered, referring to the rifle.
“Why not?” asked Bertie, still not fully underrstanding.
“‘Cause your shooting days are over, fly-cop,” jeered the black. “I’m doing the shooting and you’re going to be the target—see?”
“No, not quite,” returned Bertie, adjusting his eyeglass. He had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen and wondered why the possibility had not occurred to him.
“The boss has decided to manage without you,” went on the negro, who seemed to be enjoying the situation so much that he was reluctant to end it. “It’s sure easy here to deal with cops. By the time the hyenas here have finished with you all that’ll be left for identification will be your cigarette case. What the hyenas and jackals leave of a carcass don’t amount to much—rags and bones, that’s all. There’ll be a little bit in the papers about a hunter biting off more’n he could chew and that’ll be the end of it. Get the idea?”
Bertie got the idea without difficulty. He was thinking fast. He saw with anger that he had walked into a simple trap from which there appeared to be no way out. Kisumo held the rifle. The muzzle covered him. The first move he made would produce the fatal shot. He decided that he would not at any rate stand still and wait for the bullet. To make a jump for it was his only chance, such as it was. He braced his muscles. The black, as if sensing Bertie’s decision, stiffened and took aim.
Bertie leapt sideways; or rather he attempted to leap; but he was standing on a patch of mud and his feet skidded from under him. In trying to recover he only made matters worse, and he fell heavily in the middle of the track.
Before he could move again a rifle shot crashed, shattering the silence. With the reverberations of the report came the scream of startled birds, and the snorting and plunging of nocturnal beasts disturbed in the jungle.
As these sounds died away Kisumo lowered his rifle.
Bertie lay still.
A solemn hush fell.
Chapter 9
Tug Finds A Job
IF Ginger and Bertie had wasted no time in getting themselves inside the Stellar organization neither had Tug been idle. Things had gone well from the start, even if there had been one or two difficult situations.
On arriving in London he had collected some kit from home and then taken a room at the Beverley, one of the numerous small, drab hotels, that flourish in the region of King’s Cross station. His next move was to insert the advertisement, worded on the lines suggested by Biggles, in the leading London newspapers. He was just in time to catch the late editions, and the advertisements appeared the following morning. He did not give his address, nor a box number; he thought it would be better to give his hotel telephone number, as this would enable anyone interested to get in touch with him in the shortest possible time. This meant, of course, that he had to remain near at hand should any calls come through; but as he had nothing else to do this did not matter.
In the course of the morning he received three calls. The first was from a man who advised him to give up flying and invited him to sell his vacuum cleaners. Tug made some pungent suggestions as to what the man might do with his vacuum cleaners, and hung up. The second call was from a man who was interested in starting an air line of his own. His trouble was he had no money. Tug said he hadn’t any money either, and that closed the conversation. The third call, which came just before noon, was more promising.
This time the caller rang up to say that he was interested in the advertisement but was disinclined to discuss his business over the telephone. Would Tug meet him at five o’clock in the palm lounge of the Regency Hotel, in Piccadilly, where they could talk over a cup of tea. The caller said that for recognition purposes he would be wearing a grey suit with a red carnation in his buttonhole.
Tug promised to be there.
In due course he presented himself and without difficulty found his man, who, to Tug’s mild surprise, was not alone. He had brought with him a companion, for a purpose which was disclosed later. He who wore the red carnation, and introduced himself as a Mr. Black, was the typical town business-man type, well-groomed, keen-faced, with a brisk manner. Tug placed him in the early forties. The man made no reference to his companion apart from a casual, “It’s all right, this is a friend of mine.” The friend gave Tug a long appraising stare, which Tug returned. This man was younger—about thirty. He was tall, well-built, and good-looking in a harsh, angular sort of way. His eyes were pale grey, cold and unsmiling. High pronounced cheekbones suggested that he was not British, as was confirmed later.
“Please sit down,” invited Black, briskly, but courteously. “By the way, what is the name?”
Tug supplied the information.
“Have a cup of tea, Mr. Carrington?” went on Black.
“Thanks.”
“You’re a pilot and you’re looking for a job, eh? “
“Correct,” answered Tug. He started to give his qualifications, but Black stopped him.
“We’ll come back to that presently,” he said. “I’d like to ask you one or two personal questions first if you don’t mind?”
“Go ahead,” requested Tug.
Black went on. “Please don’t be offended, but from the way you worded your advertisement I rather gathered that you were short of money?”
Tug admitted that he wasn’t exactly flush at the moment.
“Don’t think me rude, and don’t answer if you don’t want to, but—just how short of money are you?”
Tug cocked a questioning eye. “Has that got anything to do with how I fly?”
Black offered a cigarette. “Yes, in a way, it has. Too many young fellows nowadays are apt to throw their weight about. That’s probably the result of the war. But it doesn’t make for amiable business relationships. The point is this. When a fellow is really tight for money he is far more likely to do what he’s told without arguing—and without asking too many questions. In other words, he is concerned with keeping his job. See what I mean?”
“Yes, now you put it like that,” answered Tug. “I may as well be frank. I’m as near broke as makes no difference.”
When Black spoke again his voice had dropped a tone, and had taken on a peculiar significance which Tug did not miss.
“May I take it that you woul
dn’t quibble about any work you might be asked to do, even though it was a trifle unusual—if there was real money hanging to it?”
Tug could see the way the conversation was drifting, and he tried to be helpful. There was no point in wasting time. It was evident that the sooner he let Black see that he wasn’t particular how he earned his money, the faster they would get to the point. But he did not want to appear too willing. That might look suspicious.
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be too particular—that is, as long as it was a flying job.”
“Quite so. What sort of salary had you in mind? “
“Depends on what I was asked to do,” said Tug cautiously. “For a full-time flying job I should reckon on not less than forty pounds a month.”
A ghost of a smile crossed Black’s face. “What would you say to a hundred a month and all found?”
Tug grinned. “I shouldn’t say anything. I should know I was dreaming.”
“Well, dreams sometimes come true. Naturally, we should expect something for that.”
“I should expect to do something for it,” asserted Tug. “But don’t get the idea that I’m dumb. When people offer more dough than they’re asked for they’ve usually got another card to play. Do I guess right?”
Black nodded. “Dead right. I like the way you keep pace with an argument.”
“What’s the snag?”
“There’s no snag. The extra money would be for doing just what you’re told without asking awkward questions; and when you’ve done it, forgetting about it.”
“Sounds easy,” murmured Tug, sipping the tea that Black had handed to him. “Mind if I make another guess?”
“Go ahead.”
“You’ve got some private freight you want carrying somewhere?”
“We’re getting on fine,” declared Black. “In fact, I think we’ve got far enough to put the rest of the cards on the table. The sort of freight I’m interested in is sometimes difficult to get through customs. Now how do you feel about it?”
“The load I carry in my machine is no concern of mine—as long as I get paid for carrying it. I did my share of the dirty work in the war, but that cuts no ice now. If the government can’t provide me with a pay load then I’ll take what I can get.”
“That’s common sense,” approved Black. “In times like these you have to help yourself.”
“That’s how I figure it,” agreed Tug.
Black eyed him through narrow lids. “You’re sure about this? I mean, there can’t be any changing your nind when once you’ve started.”
“I don’t change my mind as easy as all that, and I don’t quarrel with my bread and butter—not when it’s got jam on it, too,” declared Tug. “But I must tell you this. I haven’t got a civil ticket. You’ll have to give me time to get one.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Black easily. “We’ll take care of that angle. When can you start?”
Tug looked up. “You seem to be in a hurry.”
“We are. We’ve lost a couple of pilots lately; we’re short-handed and the work’s piling up. You may have to put in long hours for a start.”
Tug flicked the ash off his cigarette. “What happpened to the two pilots?” he asked casually.
“They thought they could do better than work for us,” answered Black evenly. “One thought he could sell something to the police, and the other aimed to get rich quick by telling a story to a newspaper. They both met with accidents. One, who should have known better, walked into an airscrew when it was turning. The other was knocked down and killed by a car in Fleet Street. I hope you’ve got more sense than to do anything silly like that?”
“I should hope so,” replied Tug. “But don’t get the idea that you can give me the run around all the time. I’m not selling myself body and soul. I want some private life, once in a while.”
“You do your job and you’ll get it,” promised Black. “When can you start?”
“Soon as you like. What’s the job?”
“Simple and straightforward. For the time being we shall want you in North Africa. Ivan here will go out with you. He’s our chief pilot. He’ll check up that you can handle the plane.”
“What’s the freight?”
“There isn’t any, this time. There’s an urgent letter to go out, that’s all. Can you start in the morning?”
“Sure.”
“Okay then. You’ll get your orders when you get to our Cairo office. Meanwhile, Ivan will ask you a few technical questions about your flying experience.”
Tug turned to the third man present, who now spoke for the first time. His English was good and, strangely enough, considering that it was spoken with a pronounced accent, embodied a lot of R.A.F. slang. Tug judged him to be a Pole who had served in the R.A.F. during the war. It was soon evident that he knew his job, too, for he put Tug through a short but comprehensive aero-catechism. He began with Tug’s practical experience, flying hours, and the like, and went on to aero-dynamics, navigation, and air regulations. These questions Tug had no difficulty in answering, for they had been part of his everyday life for five years. There was only one uneasy moment, and that was when I van asked Tug what squadron he served in during the war. It was on the tip of Tug’s tongue to say No. 666, which was Biggles’ squadron, but he remembered in time and named the units in which he had served before joining Biggles.
When Ivan had finished he turned to Black. “Okay,” he said. “I should say he’s just the job.”1
Black took a wallet from his pocket and slipped Tug a wad of notes. “There’s fifty to go on with,” he said. “And there’s plenty more where that came from.”
This Tug had no difficulty in believing. If these men were the counterfeiters Biggles was looking for, he mused, it didn’t matter to them how much they paid him.
“Where are you going now?” asked Black.
“Back to my hotel—unless you have any suggestion to make?” answered Tug.
“It’s a bit out of the way. We like to have our pilots where we can get at them easily.”
“And where you can see what they’re doing, eh?” suggested Tug softly.
Black frowned. “Now don’t get smart,” he reproved. “But you can put it that way if you like. To save trouble we run a little place near Croydon where the boys can get together. You’ll find it nice and comfortable. We call it the I.P.C.—that is, the International Pilots’ Club. The address is, The Laurels, Upper Purley Walk. Make it your home when you’re in this country. You might as well get your stuff together and take it down tonight. You’ll be handy for moving off in the morning.”
“Suits me,” agreed Tug.
The two men got up. “Goodbye for now,” said Black. “We’ll see you later.”
Tug nodded. Out of the corners of his eyes he watched the men thread their way through the tables towards the exit. Near the swing doors it seemed to him that Black exchanged a meaning look with a heavily-built man, dressed in a navy blue suit, who was doing nothing in particular. Nothing was said, however. In fact, he was not sure that the incident had not been a trick of his imagination. Without a backward glance Black and his tall confederate walked on and were quickly out of sight.
Tug waited for a few minutes, thinking things over. Not a word had been said about Stellar Skyways, but he felt sure that Biggles’ ruse had worked; at any rate, he was in touch with what was obviously a crooked organization, so he had not wasted his time. Whether Black was connected with Stellar or not he would be worth following up, decided Tug. His first inclination was to call Biggles on the telephone right away and tell him of what had happened; but on second thoughts he concluded that a public call box was not the place. It would be better to go back to the hotel and put the call through from there.
A taxi took him home. Evening was closing in by the tIme he arrived, bringing with it one of those dismal semi-opaque fogs, that are the bane of London. He went up to his room, had a quick wash, and then came down to the large, gloom
y Victorian hall, where the telephone was installed.
He had picked up the receiver and was waiting for the operator to answer when a slight movement at the far side of the hall caught his eye. He noticed this without any real interest because he was entirely taken up with what he was doing; but in an abstract sort of way he was puzzled; he was puzzled because the corner where the movement had occurred was occupied by one of those large, circular hallstands, common in hotels, with numerous projections for the accommodation of hats and overcoats. There were plenty of coats and mackintoshes on the stand, and he thought it was one of them that had moved. But garments do not move of their own accord, and allowing his eyes to follow the coat downward he was not very surprised to see two legs. He observed that someone was standing behind the piece of furniture.
At this moment the operator asked for the number required, and Tug had to do some quick thinking. He did not of course know who was behind the hallstand but he had a shrewd idea. To hang up now would look suspicious. Yet, obviously, he could not ask for a trunk line, to call Delmar, as he had intended. On the spur of the moment he asked for the number of the garage where he kept his taxi, explaining that he had not dialled the number because the automatic system at the other end was out of order.
A garage hand answered. Tug told him that he had merely rung up to say that he was going away on a job and might not be back for a few days. He would look in and settle his account at the first opportunity. This done he hung up and went back up the stairs. No one had yet switched on the light, so on the first landing he stopped, and creeping back peeped down into the hall. A man was just stepping from behind the coatstand. It was the man in the blue suit whom he had seen at the Regency, the man with whom he had thought Black had exchanged glances. So he had not been mistaken after all, he pondered. He was not altogether surprised. Obviously Black would not accept him on his own word straight away. He might have known that he would be watched, for a little while, anyway. He perceived for the first time that it might not be so easy for him to get in touch with Biggles as he had casually supposed. The man put on to watch him had only to hear him speaking to the Air Ministry, or Scotland Yard, and the game would be up. Not only that, he would be what is known in the American underworld as on the spot, for on Black’s own statement the people for whom he worked made no bones about an occasional murder.
