by W E Johns
With these thoughts in his mind Tug went along to his room, which was on the first floor, and locked the door behind him. He decided that it would be dangerous to use the telephone. The alternative was to write a letter. That should be easy, although it would take a little longer to get word through to Biggles. He would drop the letter in a posting box on the way to Croydon. He had no notepaper, envelopes or stamps, not expecting that he would need them, but he found an old bill in his pocket, the envelope of which, bearing a penny stamp, had not been stuck up. That would do. The stamp didn’t matter. Biggles could pay the surcharge.
He scribbled a note on the back of the bill telling Biggles what had happened. He said he was taking his kit to Croydon that night, but in all probability would be going straight on to Egypt. Of his movements after that he knew nothing.
He had slipped the note into the envelope, which he had already addressed, and was licking the fiap when he heard the handle of the door move. For a second he waited, uncertain how to act. It was evident that someone had just tried the door, and he thought he could guess who it was. His main concern now was to get rid of the note which, should it be found on him would certainly cost him his life; if he was being followed as closely as this, he reasoned, he might not find it easy to dispose of once he left the room. Very quietly he opened the window, which he knew overrlooked the back yard—a concreted area occupied chiefly by rubbish bins. The house boy was there, sitting on a box cleaning boots. Tug had seen him once before, and that was when the lad had carried his bag up to his room; and on that occasion he had been struck by his smart and obliging manner. The fact that he wore an old Air Training Corps uniform with corporal’s chevrons on the sleeves, may have had something to do with this; in any case, it caused Tug to look upon him with favour. He decided that the lad was to be trusted, so, cupping his hands round his mouth he called in a loud whisper, “Hi! Corporal!”
The boy’s brush stopped in mid-air. He looked up. Tug held out the envelope and let it fall. “Post it,” he said tersely. “I’m in a jam.”
The boy caught the envelope. “Okay,” he called cheerfully. He glanced at the address and waved a hand. “It’s as good as in the bag,” he promised.
“Thanks,” said Tug, and closed the window softly. As he did this there came a knock on the door. He went over and opened it. As he expected, it was the man in the blue suit.
As the man made a move to advance into the room Tug put a hand against his chest. “Not so fast, stranger,” he said curtly. “You’ve come to the wrong room. I live here.”
“It’s all right. Mr. Black sent me along to see if I could give you a hand,” announced the visitor casually.
“Then you can go back and tell Mr. Black that I don’t need any help,” returned Tug crisply. “I’ve packed a bag before and I know my way around.”
“Okay—okay—nothing to get excited about,” chided the visitor gently. “We’re all in the same business, ain’t we?”
“That depends on what business you’re in,” growled Tug, not a little relieved to know that his letter was on its way to the posting box. “Who are you, anyway? “ he demanded.
“The boys call me Joe.”
“And what do you do for a living?”
“Among other things I drive a car. I’ve got one outside. Black thought you might like to use it to run down to Croydon—save a taxi.”
Tug was now more than ever glad that he had got rid of the letter. It was clear that he had taken what might turn out to be his only chance, for he had an increasing suspicion that Joe’s real job was not to let him out of his sight. This proved correct, for as soon as Tug’s bag was packed Joe remarked: “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”
“No hurry, is there?” inquired Tug. “I’ve got to pay my bill yet.”
“Okay, then let’s pay it,” was the cheerful reply.
“How long is this going on?” asked Tug in a brittle voice, as they went down the stairs.
“Just until the boss is satisfied that you ain’t likely to lose yerself in this big town,” answered Joe frankly. “What’s the matter with me—don’t you like my company?”
“I’ve had better,” returned Tug. “You know, I seem to have seen your face before.”
“Shouldn’t wonder at that,” answered Joe. “My mug was in all the papers not so long ago, when I was in the army.”
“I’ll bet it wasn’t in for winning the V.C.,” sneered Tug.
“Nothing so difficult,” declared Joe, grinning. “They caught me bringing in a few odds and ends of jewellery from Germany, when I was coming home on leave.”
“What did they give you for that?”
“Six months—but I’m getting my own back—see?”
“Ah—huh. Sure I see,” murmured Tug.
“You wouldn’t blame me for that?”
“Not likely. After all, I’m in the same boat.”
“Good for you—the more the merrier.”
Tug paid his bill, after which they went out into the street where, as Joe had said, he had a car waiting. In half an hour they were in Croydon.
* * *
1 “Just the job” is R.A.F. slang meaning exactly what was wanted.
Chapter 10
Melancholy News
THE International Pilots’ Club turned out to be a private house standing behind tall hedges of the depressing evergreens that gave the place its name. But inside it was a different story. It was clear that every effort had been made to make the place a bright and cheerful home. It so happened that at the time of Tug’s visit there was only one other pilot in residence, an uncommmunicative Frenchman who, so Tug was told, generally flew between London and Paris. There was still no sign or mention of Stellar Skyways.
During the evening Black came in. Ivan was with him. They sat talking to Tug for a while. Apart from that the evening passed without incident. Ivan said that as they would be moving off at dawn he was going to bed early, and advised Tug to do the same—advice which was accepted.
The break of dawn found them on the tarmac at Croydon Airport, and there at a glance, outside one of the private hangars, Tug found the answer to the big problem that had exercised his mind. It was a Pacemaker aircraft, bearing the flying dragon insignia of Stellar Skyways. The registration letters were not those of the machine of which he had seen a photograph. Ivan said it was the aircraft they were to take to Cairo. There were no passengers, no freight. He had only a letter to deliver. With a sly smile he handed Tug the licence and documents he would have to carry as a civil air line pilot. How they had been obtained in the time was a mystery Tug did not try to solve.
“Expensive business, isn’t it, taking a machine all that way just to deliver a letter?” he suggested.
“It depends on how important the letter happens to be,” answered Ivan curtly. “In this case it is very important.”
Tug said no more about it, and in a few minutes they were in the air, heading south. Tug took over control. Ivan sat beside him, watching, until it became evident that Tug needed no instruction. What little conversaation passed between them was confined to technicalities. Tug had to be on his guard only once, and that was when they were flying across Italy. Ivan asked him, casually, if he had ever run into a fellow named Bigglesworth.
Tug said he thought he had heard the name.
“He’s running an air cop service for Scotland Yard,” Ivan told him.
“Is that so?” returned Tug, as if the matter did not interest him.
“It is because of him we are flying to Africa today,” said Ivan in his stiff English. “Bigglesworth and his friends have some shocks coming to them,” he added.
“I couldn’t care less,” murmured Tug, using the popular R.A.F. expression. Nevertheless he wondered with no small anxiety what these shocks were. “What about these shocks—are they anything to do with us?” he inquired carelessly.
“They might have been,” answered Ivan vaguely. Tug dare not pursue the subject.
Cairo was reached without mishap, and after a night spent at the airport hotel, a night during which Ivan never left him—even going to the length of sharing a room with him—they returned to the tarmac, and the Stellar company’s office.
Here there was a whispered conversation between Ivan and the booking clerk. At the conclusion of this Ivan came back to Tug and informed him that certain events had necessitated a change of plan. There had been some trouble in Rome, and he, Ivan, would have to go there. This meant that Tug would have to carry on single-handed. The letter which Ivan had carried was to be delivered to Mr. Kreeze, manager of the company’s hunting lodge at Kudinga. Tug was shown the place on the map. Ivan asked him if he was sure that he could manage the trip. Tug, who felt that things were going well, told him that he needn’t worry about that. As they checked the compass course Tug was, in fact, elated. Nothing could be better, for happening to glance at the passenger list, which lay on the table in the office, he saw that the last two names registered were Major Lissie and Captain Hebblethwaite.
When, a few minutes later, he was told that he was to get off, Ivan handed him the important letter. There was nothing else to go. Tug put the letter in his pocket and was soon in the air, heading south down the Nile Valley.
The trip was made without incident, for the weather was fine and the machine gave no trouble. He passed another Stellar aircraft heading north; that was all, and at noon precisely he touched down on the sun-scorched landing-ground at Kudinga. A steward came out to meet him to tell him that he was to report to the manager’s office instantly. Tug taxied the aircraft into the shade of the temporary hangar and then, climbing down, followed the steward to the lodge.
The manager greeted him brusquely. “I’m Kreeze. I’m in charge here,” he announced. “You’re a new man?”
Tug introduced himself.
“You managed to get here all right?”
“No trouble at all.”
“Good. Make yourself at home. You’ll find anything you want at the lodge. Have a rest. I may have to ask you to go back to Cairo tonight. It depends on the contents of the letter which you have brought. I was advised of it by radio.”
Tug handed over the letter.
Kreeze ripped it open and withdrew the rather bulky contents. Tug, watching, saw with mild surprise, but without particular interest, that these included a packet of photographs. Kreeze drew a deep breath, uttered a curious exclamation that might have been satisfaction, and arranged the photographs face upwards on his desk.
As Tug’s eyes settled on them he ceased to breathe.
He stared, and stared again, as if the pictures mesmerized him. The background in each case was the same. It was the entrance to Scotland Yard. Four people were represented. They were Biggles, Algy, Ginger and Bertie.
“Just what I wanted,” purred Kreeze, rubbing his hands together.
“Who are they, anyway?” asked Tug, trying to keep his voice steady. It made him sick to think that he, of all people, had been the means of betraying Bertie and Ginger, whom he knew must be somewhere about.
“They’re the smart boys of the Special Air Police,” answered Kreeze. “Only they’re not so smart as they think they are. A couple of them are going to discover that very soon. They happen to be here now. They have, as the saying is, stepped into the soup with both feet.”
Now that he was able to think more clearly, what puzzled Tug was, where the photographs had come from. If Stellar already possessed photos why had they bothered to try to take fresh ones in Mount Street? He risked a question.
Picking up a print of Biggles he looked at it closely and inquired: “Neat work, getting hold of these. How did you manage it?”
“Two or three brainy fellows have got together and are running a little photographic library,” answered Kreeze. “In the same way that the police have a library of people they don’t like, so the people they don’t like will now be able to get photographs of them, and their narks, snoopers, stool-pigeons, and so on. These lads are doing well, too, I believe—as they should, charging five guineas a time for prints.”
So here, thought Tug, was yet another racket to outwit the forces of law and order. He would attend to it when he got back.
“You say two of these fellows are here?” he prompted. The thought had struck him that, if Kreeze were to send him straight back to Egypt, he might have to leave without seeing them; and his obvious duty now was to warn them of what had happened, even if it involved risks.
“They’re out shooting,” Kreeze told him.
“You’ll be able to fix them all right, I suppose?”
Kreeze gave a short unpleasant laugh. “They’ve no more hope of getting out of here than a rabbit has of getting out of a wolf pen. You’d better go and get some rest. You’ll be going back to Cairo this evening with another letter. There are some trophies to go up—you can take them at the same time. You’d better leave about six. They tell me it’s easier to fly in this country, not so bumpy, after the sun goes down.”
“That’s right,” agreed Tug.
He made his way slowly to the lounge. If Bertie and Ginger were out hunting there seemed to be nothing that he could do, except wait for them to come back. That, he reflected miserably, might be any time up to darkness. If they left it too late he would be gone. Even if they returned it might be a difficult matter to get in touch with them in the short time at his disposal.
He had lunch in the dining-room, and hung about all the afternoon, waiting and hoping, but in vain. There was no sign of the hunters. As the sun began to sink he found a seat on the verandah and from there kept watch. Presently, much to his annoyance, Kreeze joined him, and stayed chatting about nothing in particular.
After a little while a man, whom Tug did not know came up and spoke to Kreeze. “Kisumo and Lissie are back,” he announced. “The other one’s on the loose somewhere.”
Kreeze spat a curse. “What’s Kisumo playing at, the fool? He had his orders. How did it happen?”
“He says the young ‘un sprained an ankle just after they left the wood. He couldn’t walk, so he had to be left there. When he and Lissie got back he wasn’t there. They couldn’t find him so they came on home.”
Kreeze thought for a moment. “All right,” he said slowly. “We’ll clear this business up. The photos are just in. As I thought, Lissie and Hebblethwaite are police spies. Where are Kisumo and Lissie now?”
“They’re about. I think Lissie has gone to his room.”
“Send them both to my office right away,” ordered Kreeze, and walked out.
Tug, taking a chance, for he was desperately anxious to see what happened, followed him. He fully expected to be told to stay where he was, but Kreeze, who seemed preoccupied, said nothing.
There was nobody in the office when they got there, but a minute later Bertie, accompanied by a stalwart black, came in. He saw the muscles of Bertie’s face stiffen as his eyes fell on him. Then Kreeze turned, and apparently noticed him for the first time.
“What are you doing here? “ said Kreeze sharply. “ I told you to get some rest.”
Tug had no choice but to withdraw. Deep in thought he made his way to the verandah, and there he waited for some time, hoping for a chance to get even two or three words with Bertie. A little while later he saw him with the black.
They disappeared into the sleeping quarters. When next he saw them they were walking along a track some distance away as if bound on an errand. He dare not risk following them. Like Bertie, he could only hope that they would get an opportunity to compare notes later.
Not long afterwards he was startled to hear a rifle-shot. It was followed closely by two more. He stood up, staring, for the reports came from the direction taken by Bertie and the black.
Kreeze joined him. “Where were those shots?” he asked tersely.
Tug pointed. “Over there.”
“How many shots did you hear?”
“Three.”
“Hm.” Kreeze seemed puzzled. “One
should have been enough,” he muttered.
Some other men came to the verandah. Tug did not know who they were. One, smoking a big meerschaum pipe, Kreeze addressed as Doctor.
Tug was wondering what Kreeze could have meant by his remark, ‘One should have been enough.’ It sounded as if something had been arranged. Then, suddenly, the matter was explained when Kreeze, speaking to the man he had called Doctor, continued the conversation. “Lissie’s a police spy. So’s the fellow who came with him. They’ve been here long enough and they may have seen too much, so I told Kisumo to start liquidating. He knows what to do. As he should be carrying Lissie’s rifle there ought to be no difficulty about it.”
The Doctor nodded. “Another accident, eh?”
“It’s the best way.”
By this time the ghastly truth had struck Tug like a douche of icy cold water. Bertie had been sent out with the black to be murdered. The conversation he had just overheard could mean nothing else. The black would return alone to report that the rifle had gone off by accident and Bertie had been shot. This, then, was one way unwanted visitors were disposed of.
