by W E Johns
Biggles looked interested. “Where are these things now?”
“I imagine they will have been unloaded and put into the Stellar office. If they haven’t, then they’re still in the machine. I suppose they’ll go on to the people who own them. I noticed they were all labelled.”
“What was on the labels?”
“I didn’t look to see. I wasn’t interested. I couldn’t get poor old Bertie out of my mind. I noticed the labels, that’s all.”
“I’d like to have a look at those trophies,” said Biggles slowly. “How many people are there employed in the Stellar office?”
“I couldn’t be sure of that,” returned Tug. “There’s the head clerk—a ropey type, if ever I saw one. He’s got an assistant who does the books, and there are some outside men, Egyptians they look like, who service the machines.”
“Where do these people hang out?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“I mean, does it look as if they might sleep on the premises?”
“Judging from the size of the place, I should say not.”
Biggles looked at his watch. “I wonder could we get into this place,” he murmured. “I imagine it will be locked up for the night now. They wouldn’t be likely to maintain a twenty-four hour service. I’ll tell you what. Tug, whatever happens you mustn’t be seen with us. You stay here. You’ve got all the gen at your finger tips. Write me out a report for the Air Commodore. I’ll sign it and get it flown to England nght away. Algy and I are going to the airport. If we’re not back by daylight you forget about us and carry on with your job.”
“Okay.”
“We shall try to get back in time to see you, of course.” Biggles got up. “Come on, Algy—let’s get cracking. I don’t know how long this job will take—depends on whether we can get in or not. We shan’t be able to force the door or windows or it will be known that an attempt was made to break in. We’ll make a reconnaissance and, then proceed according to what we find. Let’s go. See you later, Tug. If it should so happen that we don’t come back you can sign the report for me. Take it to Headquarters Middle East and ask for Air Marshal Laggan. Tell him I sent you and say that I’d be obliged if he’d rush the report home by special courier. You’d better try to snatch some sleep.”
“I could do with some,” admitted Tug wearily.
“Are we going as we are?” asked Algy, picking up a burnous.
“I don’t think we shall want those things any more,” replied Biggles.
It was only a short walk to the airport, and then a few minutes were sufficient to confirm what Biggles had suspected.
The Stellar offices were shut, locked, and in darkness. Every door and window had been made secure.
“It’s no use,” said Algy. “We shall have to take to carrying skeleton keys in our kit.”
“Let’s try the hangar,” suggested Biggles. That, too, was locked.
Biggles shrugged. “There are more ways than one of killing cats, and that goes for most things,” he said tritely. “Let’s try another way.” He set off at a brisk walk.
“Where are we going?” asked Algy.
“To the city.”
“It’s a fair walk.”
“I’m going to stop a car,” declared Biggles. “We can’t afford to waste time hiking.”
Several cars were moving about, mostly travelling towards the city. Biggles stopped one. An army officer sat at the wheel. He looked as if he had been to a party. At any rate, he was in a cheerful mood and offered willingly to drive them to their hotel. He looked a trifle startled when Biggles told him that they didn’t want an hotel, but Police Headquarters.
“Lost your watch or something?” queried the officer nonchalantly, as they got in.
“You’ve guessed it in one,” answered Biggles evenly, responding to the man’s mood.
The officer was as good as his word and put them down at Police Headquarters.
Chapter 13
A Thief To Catch A Thief
Biggles and Algy found a Major Grattan on duty. In his private office Biggles introduced himself and Algy and showed their special C.I.D. passes. These, as the saying is, made the Major sit up and take notice.
“It must be something pretty serious to bring you out here,” he observed, looking hard at Biggles. “We’ve heard of you, of course. That Abyssinian affair, which you cleaned up, made a bit of a stir in this part of the world. The Department is at your service. What can I do for you?”
Biggles smiled faintly. “I have an unusual request to make,” he answered. “I want you to tell me the name and address of the cleverest housebreaker in Cairo.”
The Major stared, as well he might. “You want a burglar?”
“That’s right—a fellow who can open locked doors.” Suddenly the Major laughed. “Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place,” he asserted. “I should say in that respect Cairo can hold its own with any city in the world. You’re in luck. It so happens that our most brilliant exponent is right on the spot. We had occasion to pick him up last night on suspicion... loitering with intent—you know?”
“Nothing definite against him?”
“Actually—no.”
“Then if he did a good job for us you might let him off with a caution?”
“It could be arranged, no doubt.”
“What’s his name?”
“Abdullah ibn Abu.”
“A native!”
“An Arab. A quaint character—likeable in a way. He’d be a good type if only he could keep out of mischief.”
“Does he speak English?”
“Oh yes. Would you like me to have him brought in?”
“Thanks.”
The Major touched a bell. It was answered by an orderly. He went out, and presently returned with a tall, portly, middle-aged Arab, whose dignified poise was well matched by an expression of utter indifference.
Laying a hand on his heart he looked at the Major and said gravely, in a deep sonorous voice: “Effendi, as ever I am at thy command.”
The Major indicated Biggles. “Abdullah, here is an officer who seeks a service in the business in which you excel. Serve him well and you will be rewarded. When the matter is ended you will return here to me, and not seek a hiding-place in the kasbah.”
“Call upon the Prophet, I swear it,” said Abdullah earnestly.
Major Grattan turned to Biggles. “You’d better tell him what you want him to do. Shall I stay, or would you rather talk to him alone?”
“Stay by all means,” replied Biggles. “We are engaged on a case in which your department may be involved at any moment.” To Abdullah he said: “This is a private matter between us.”
“May my tongue shrivel if I speak of it,” returned Abdullah simply.
“It is a matter of opening a door that is locked,” went on Biggles. “Could that be managed?”
Abdullah drew himself up to his full height. “Could it be managed? By the Face of God, what talk is this?” he asked wonderingly. “Since when was there a door for which I, Abdullah ibn Abu, could not find a key?”
“If you can so easily open doors, why did you not open the door of your cell and walk away?” inquired Biggles sceptically.
“I was about to do so, effendi. I waited only for the most convenient hour,” asserted Abdullah calmly.
Major Grattan leaned forward. “And what,” he asked coldly, “were you going to use for a key?”
From under his gumbaz Abdullah produced a nail and a piece of wire.
The Major frowned. “Where did you get those?”
“From the broom which I, thy humble servant, am expected to use to keep clean the floor of the lodging into which thou has cast me,” explained Abdullah. “The broom had been mended in a careless fashion,” he added naively.
Biggles rose. “Let us go,” he said. Of the Major he inquired: “Is there a car handy that I can use? It would save time.”
“You can borrow mine,” offered the Major. “You’ll find it outsi
de.”
“Thanks,” said Biggles. “This way, Abdullah.”
Biggles drove the car to the airport and stopped in the inky shadow of a hangar. Then, on foot, they went on to the offices of Stellar Skyways. Pointing to the building Biggles said: “This is the place that I wish to enter. But no signs must be left of our visit.”
“W’allah! Signs, effendi? By the Truth of God, there shall be no more than those left by a jackal in a stony wadi,” promised Abdullah.
He set to work. In five minutes the door was open.
He stepped back. “Enter,” he invited. “What is thy pleasure now?”
“Guard the door and warn me if anyone comes,” ordered Biggles. Then, to Algy: “Come on—we haven’t too much time.”
They went in through the open door, Biggles closing it, but not latching it, behind him. Then, switching on a torch, but holding the light down, he looked around. One glance told him what he wanted to know.
“This is the public booking office,” he said quietly. “We’re not likely to find anything here.”
There was a door at the far side of the room. He walked over to it and turned the handle. It was locked. “Fetch Abdullah,” he ordered. “You’d better keep cave until I send him back.”
Algy went out, and presently Abdullah came in. Biggles pointed to the door. “Can you manage this one?” he asked.
“The makers of locks are cheats and swindlers which is something I have never been,” remarked Abdullah with his lordly air. “For what is the use of a lock that can be turned by a thief?” he asked, almost plaintively. “Still, doubtless God knows best.”
“Doubtless,” agreed Biggles. “But don’t talk so much. Can you open the door?”
“If it is the Will of God,” said Abdullah piously. Three minutes later the door swung slowly open.
Abdullah bowed and withdrew. When Algy came back Biggles was in the inner office, going through the papers on the desk.
“I don’t see the letter Tug brought up—the one addressed to White,” remarked Biggles. “As it was urgent it has probably been delivered, which must mean that White lives hereabouts.”
They found nothing of interest in the desk. There were letters, but they all appeared to refer to legitimate business.
Biggles said he was not surprised. It was hardly to be expected that incriminating documents would be left lying about.
“Somewhere there should be a complete record of everyone employed by the company,” remarked Algy. “ It would be needed for the pay-roll.”
“If we could get hold of that we should have the master-key of the whole business, but I don’t expect we shall find it here,” returned Biggles. “Notice the two telephones—one on the desk and one on the wall. That one on the wall is a private wire. It must connect with somebody important. We’ll remember it. What’s in here?” As he spoke he walked over to a big, built-in cupboard. His torch revealed a number of miscellaneous parcels, conspicuous among which were a number of big game trophies.
“Looks like the luggage department,” observed Algy.
“Evidently,” answered Biggles. “Seems to be quite a lot of stuff here, too, as if Cairo was a bottle-neck in the organization. Ah—of course. I remember Tug saying that the company has been short of pilots. That would account for it. Stuff would pile up.”
“Why Cairo particularly?”
“Because it’s here, don’t forget, that the Hunters’ Tour links up with the Old World Tour, which operates over Europe. Today is Thursday. The European tour calls here every Saturday. When it comes I imagine it clears this stuff. By the way, do you notice a queer smell?”
Algy sniffed. “Now you mention it. A musty smell, mixed up with moth balls.”
“Does it remind you of anything?”
“I can’t say that it does.”
“I’ve smelt that same smell before, and recently,” declared Biggles. “Your nose seldom lets you down. It takes you back to a scene quicker than any other sense. Wait a minute, let me think. By thunder! I’ve got it! Something in here has the same smell as the stamps and notes you saw me examining the other day in Mount Street. Or let’s put it the other way round. The stamps had the same peculiar aroma as something in this cupboard. That can’t be coincidence. Hold the light.”
While Algy held the torch Biggles examined the contents of the cupboard, but without finding anything of interest.
“Strange,” he said in a baffled voice. “The thing must be here somewhere. Hold hard. I’ve got an idea.” As he spoke he lifted out the grinning mask of a leopard and turned it round slowly in his hands. “This has been preserved, but not properly mounted yet,” he observed. “Of course, in this condition it would be easier to transport home. Notice how the skin has been sewn up at the back of the neck, with enough hide left over for it to be mounted on a wood shield. What’s this?” He turned over a label that was attached. There was writing on it and he read it aloud. “General Sir Yardley Simmonds, K.C.B., D.S.O., Barrington Hall, Leicester... via Samuel Cassar & Co., Taxidermists, Bantock Place, London E.C.4. That last part is printed,” he observed. “Only the General’s name is written. That can only mean that stuff must go to Cassar & Co. regularly. What do you make of that?”
“There can’t be anything wrong with the General’s stuff,” declared Algy. “He’s a member of the Army Council. That puts him above suspicion.”
“Exactly—above suspicion,” murmured Biggles in a curious voice. “I wonder...? Show a light.”
Taking out his penknife he carefully cut enough of the stitches at the back of the leopard’s head to enable him to insert three fingers. Algy, watching, saw him withdraw a flat object that was presently revealed to be a closely-pressed packet of paper.
There was a brief interval of silence. Then Biggles said, in a voice that was brittle with sudden understanding “Fivers! This is it! We’ve got it. What a scheme. Simple, yet bar accidents, foolproof.”
“You’re not going to suggest that the General is in the racket, are you?” asked Algy incredulously.
“Of course not,” answered Biggles quickly. “But it’s all as plain now as the sun in the sky. Don’t you see, the General’s name is good enough to get the stuff through. This is how it works. This stuff has come up from Kudinga. The General must have been down there, hunting. The notes are being printed there. The trophies are roughly cured there, and the notes sewn into them. They are then sent on here. Of course, the owners of the trophies know nothing about the notes. But this is the clever part. The trophies are addressed to the homes of the owners, and their names are important enough to see them through customs. But before going home the trophies go first to a taxidermist for final dressing and setting up. He’s the racketeer. He distributes the stuff and so gets it into circulation. Afterwards, no doubt, the trophies are sent on to the homes of their rightful owners. In that way spurious notes could be introduced into any country in the world. This is the receiving depot from Kudinga. From here I should say the stuff is picked up by the Old World Tour and delivered in the relevant country. We can soon check up on that. Let’s look at some of these labels. Show the light.”
In quick succession Biggles read out the addresses. “Paris— Rome— Istanbul— New York— London. Okay, that’s all we want to know.”
“But wouldn’t the customs people feel something inside these skins?” queried Algy.
“Possibly—but they would assume it to be stuffing, which in fact it is. The things have to be stuffed, but the customs people would hardly expect the stuffing to consist—as in this case—of five-pound notes. Customs officers are pretty thorough, but I doubt if they would think it necessary to pull to pieces the property of a man like, say, General Sir Yardley Simmonds. Anyway, it seems to have worked. No doubt in the ordinary way, when the company has plenty of pilots and machines available, the trophies actually travel up with their owners, which would make it easier still. But we’re wasting time. This is really all we need to know. With a full list of the company’s p
recious taxidermists the police can rope in every distributing centre; and by sitting in the taxidermists’ shops they can catch every private distributor as he comes in. Hold the light while I copy down these names and addresses.”
With Algy holding the torch Biggles wrote fast in his notebook.
“You’re not going to touch this stuff then?” asked Algy.
“Not likely. We’ll leave it just as it is. It can go on. I’ll advise Raymond. He no doubt will notify the police on the continent, who, by swooping on the stuff as it is delivered, will catch the crooks with the goods on them. Okay, that’s all. Let’s tidy up and get out.”
Biggles drew the threads and arranged the leopard skin so that the incision he had made did not show. The trophies were then returned to the cupboard as they had been found. Having satisfied himself that nothing was out of place Biggles made for the door. “Abdullah can lock up behind us,” he said.
By the time this was done, and they had returned to the car, the stars were paling in the east. Without speaking, engrossed in thought, Biggles drove back to Police Headquarters where Abdullah was handed over to Major Grattan, who was just going off duty.
“Here’s your prisoner,” Biggles told the police officer. “He’s done a good job. Let him off lightly. He’s a useful man. You might do worse than take him on your staff.”
“It’s an idea. I hadn’t thought of it,” admitted the Major.
“The Hand of God is in this,” swore Abdullah earnestly. “If I were free,” he added pensively, “my mother would not suffer grief.”
“Go to her, and see that you do not again give her cause for grief,” said the Major sternly.
Abdullah touched his forehead and then his heart. “Upon my head be it,” said he.
“Forget what you have seen tonight,” ordered Biggles.
“Effendi, it is already forgotten,” returned Abdullah, and went out into the dawn.
Biggles thanked the Major for his co-operation and followed Abdullah to the street.
“Now what?” asked Algy.
“Let’s get back to Tug,” answered Biggles. “We’re cutting things fine.”
