by W E Johns
‘Yes, there’s something in that,’ agreed Biggles.
‘And provided Cesare did the generous uncle stuff, giving the boy a good time, Carlo might be content to stay with him — for a while, anyway.’
‘Yes, I see that. For such a frolic Cesare would need money. How would he be fixed for cash?’
‘He probably had some tucked away. Don’t forget he’d been a gangster in a big way for years. All these top gangsters make money. They have to.’
Biggles took a cigarette and tapped it thoughtfully on the desk. ‘Kansas is much nearer Mexico than it is to Canada. Of the two, if Cesare has in fact left the country, one would imagine him making for the nearest border.’
‘I wouldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘For the very reason that Cesare, being a professional crook, would figure that was what people would think. Therefore he’d go some place else.’
Biggles smiled. ‘You may have something there. What does all this boil down to?’
‘In my view the kid’s alive. Had he been bumped off his father would have been told, to knock him flat. Remember, this is a case of revenge. I’d say the boy’s staying with Cesare of his own free will. He’s living, doing the things he wants to, for the first time in his life. I could find no trace of that plane crossing the Mexican frontier so I tried Canada, and there I picked up what may be a clue. Three days after the abduction, a man and boy answering fairly well to the description of those we’re looking for, boarded a regular service plane bound for London. The boy wore dark glasses. It was said he was going to London for an eye operation by a specialist. Now you know why I’m here.’
‘I see,’ said Biggles, slowly. ‘Under what names were this man and boy travelling?’
‘According to the passenger list, which I saw, they were Mr Arturo Cornelli and his son Giovanni, Canadian citizens of Montreal. Notice the Italian names. That would be necessary because they both looked Italian — as in fact they were by birth. If that was Cesare Paolo and Carlo Salvatore they wouldn’t be likely to use their own names. The first thing I did was check up on their home address in Montreal. There was no such place.’
‘What about their passports? They couldn’t travel without them.’
‘Passports!’ Eddie snorted. ‘To get false passports would present no difficulty to a crook like Cesare. He’d know where to get them. Don’t forget this whole plot must have been carefully thought out and everything prepared. Cesare may have taken weeks or even months over it.’
‘So you think Cesare and the boy may now be over this side of the Atlantic?’
‘I do.’
‘Why should Cesare choose England?’
‘Because that would be a stepping stone to anywhere in Europe—Italy, maybe.’
‘And what do you want me to do about it?’
‘Find this couple who came here under the names of Arturo and Giovanni Cornelli.’
‘That may take a little while. The trail will be cold by now.’
‘I’m in no hurry. I’m playing up a hunch. I may be wrong, but if I’m right it should put me on the list for promotion,’ said Eddie, grinning, as he stubbed his cigar in the ash-tray. ‘There’s just one other thing,’ he concluded. ‘The boy’s father, Rosario Salvatore, has offered a reward of a hundred thousand dollars for information concerning his son, alive or dead.’
‘Let’s find the boy, never mind the money,’ proposed Biggles, grimly.
* * *
1 See Biggles’ Combined Operation.
CHAPTER 2
LEAVE IT TO GASKIN
‘WELL, you’re on your own ground, what do you reckon’s my best way to go to work?’ asked Eddie, a trifle anxiously.
‘I take it you’ve come to me hoping I’ll lend a hand?’
‘Sure.’
‘Fine. Having settled that, how long do you intend to stay over this side?’
‘Until I’ve ascertained whether or not this guy who calls himself Cornelli is Cesare Paola.’
‘Does your boss know you’re here?’
‘Sure he does.’
‘Does he know exactly why you’re here?’
‘He knows I’m following up a clue. I’m to ring him from time to time to see if any news has come in over our side. I shall call him of course when I’ve seen Cornelli. If he isn’t Paola I go back home.’
‘It may be some time before you see him. To find him won’t be as easy as all that. This is a free country and we don’t keep a tab on visitors as they do in some places.’
‘I understand that.’
‘Very well. Then let’s start by assuming Cornelli is Cesare Paola. Then we can ask ourselves what he would be most likely to do when he got here? Of one thing we can be certain. If these two people, man and boy, left Canada by air in a London-bound aircraft then he must have arrived here, because there are no intermediate stops. That being so, there isn’t much point in confirming their arrival at London airport. But to identify them there is one line of approach we might try. Do you happen to have photographs of Cesare Paola and Carlo Salvatore?’
‘Right here in my wallet. I’ve a copy of the official prison mug-shot of Cesare and a snapshot of the boy taken a couple o’ years ago.’
‘Good. Ginger can take them to London airport for identification.’
Said Ginger: ‘The person most likely to be able to do that would be the air hostess who travelled in the machine.’
‘Try to find her. Failing that try the Customs people. At the same time you might check if they’ve left the country.’ Biggles turned back to Eddie. ‘Assuming they arrived it doesn’t necessarily mean they’re still here. They might have gone straight on, or within a day or two, bound for anywhere in Europe — or the world, for that matter. If they’re still in this country a routine police check should be able to locate them, although that’s a slogging business and may take a while. They would presumably stay at a hotel, and hotels have to keep a register of the arrival and departure of guests. The only snag about that is, as Cesare wouldn’t have to produce his passport he might have changed his name again.’
‘Yeah. He might do that.’
‘We may be sure, wherever he’s gone he’ll do his best to cover up his trail. He may even lay false trails to baffle possible pursuits. What we must bear in mind is, Cornelli came here as a Canadian, which means as far as we’re concerned he’s a British subject. If, as I imagine, he speaks English with a trans-Atlantic accent, he’d have no difficulty in getting away with that. Maybe that’s why, for his passport he chose to domicile himself in Canada.’
‘What difference would that make?’
‘A lot. As a British subject he could stay here indefinitely if he felt like it. As a foreigner he’d have to register. On the other hand, if, as a British subject, he went to any country in Europe, the same regulation would apply. If he went to France, for instance, even with a passport, at the end of three months he’d have to apply for an identity card, which means there would be a police record of him. But we can deal with this sort of thing later, should it arise.’
‘You think he might have gone on to France?’
‘He might have gone anywhere, but if you asked me to guess to which country he’d be most likely to make for, I’d say Italy, the reason being the language. Having had Italian parents, both Cesare and Carlo would be able to speak Italian.’
‘That’s a point I hadn’t thought of,’ admitted Eddie.
‘By the same token, as they must both speak English, they might stay here — for a time, anyway. Let’s hope that is the case, because it would simplify matters considerably. Supposing they’re still here, the question arises, where would they be most likely to go?’
‘What would you say to that?’
‘If Cornelli is Cesare he’d behave like the crook we know him to be. Either he’ll find a hide-out in one of the big cities, probably London, or bury himself in the depths of the country. It could be either. But sooner or later our police will find him. I
t would be a waste of time for us to start looking for him. A man hunt of this sort is a matter of organization in which the entire police force of the country takes part. Unfortunately in this case we’ve nothing to go on. The haunts of a criminal on the run, or an escaped prisoner, are known, and can be watched. Sooner or later such people make for home, if only because they run out of money. Money isn’t likely to worry Cornelli or he wouldn’t have come here at all.’
‘All these crooks have money tucked away, if only to employ good lawyers if they’re caught.’
‘That’s another snag. Whereas most people in Europe have to be satisfied with a fixed currency allowance Cesare could bring in a suitcase full of dollars if he has them. There’s no limit on dollars.’
‘You think of all the snags,’ said Eddie, gloomily.
‘Glossing over them won’t help us. I can think of one for Cesare, too.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It will only be a matter of time before Carlo becomes difficult.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘No matter how well Cesare treats the boy, regardless of the excuses he makes for not returning to the States, there’ll come a day when Carlo will want to go home to see his father. Unless he’s a fool he’ll wonder why he isn’t allowed to go, and if Cesare tries to keep too tight a hold on him he’ll become suspicious, smell something fishy in the whole business.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’
‘Afraid of what?’
‘The boy becoming restless. If it came to a showdown Cesare would murder the boy rather than let him go to the police or go home to his pop.’
‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ agreed Biggles. ‘Looked at in that light, time may be an important factor. Still, all we can do is wait while the police get on with the job. It would be futile for us to rush about the country looking for two needles in a thousand haystacks.’
‘Sure. I realize that.’
‘All right. Then let’s get things moving. Ginger, while I’m talking to Gaskin you might take these photos to London airport and see if anyone there can give you a line on them. It would be something if we could establish definitely that this chap calling himself Cornelli is in fact Cesare Paola.’
‘Okay.’
Before moving off Ginger had a good look at the photographs after they had been passed round. Knowledge of the gangster’s criminal activities may have prejudiced him, but it struck him that the man was a perfect example of the type so often portrayed in American films. The photograph, as is usual with such records, showed only head and shoulders. The face, thin and drawn in hard lines, was expressionless: what is sometimes called deadpan. The eyes, half-closed, dark and deep-set under a low forehead topped with sleek, jet-black hair, were as coldly calculating as those of a bird of prey. The portrait, Ginger decided, was that of a man both unscrupulous and merciless, prepared to go to any lengths to get what he wanted.
As far as the boy was concerned there was nothing remarkable about him except that his face was so soft and smooth that it might have been that of a girl. His Italian ancestry was evident in a dark complexion, but broadly speaking he looked a healthy, perfectly normal lad, somewhat tired and smiling sadly as if trying to oblige the photographer.
Ginger put the photographs in his pocket and departed on his errand.
Biggles called Inspector Gaskin on the intercom, telephone and asked him if he could spare a few minutes. ‘He’s coming up,’ he said, as he replaced the receiver.
Presently the Inspector came, as usual with his pipe in his mouth. Having introduced Eddie, the two having not previously met, Biggles explained the position.
Gaskin listened to the story in silence. At the finish he said: ‘If these two came here in the names of Cornelli, provided they haven’t changed ‘em since they arrived it shouldn’t take us long to find ‘em. I’d better go and get things under way. I’ll let you know as soon as I have any news.’ He went out.
Biggles sat back. ‘Well, Eddie, there we are. All we can do now is wait for results. While we’re waiting for Ginger to come back we might as well go out and get some lunch. Algy and Bertie can take over the office while we’re out.’
It was just after three o’clock when Ginger returned from the airport. ‘Not much luck,’ he reported. ‘The air hostess who was on the Atlantic run has just been moved to the Middle East, so there was no chance of seeing her. The names of the Cornellis are on the passenger list, but the only man I could find to help in the way of recognition was a Customs Officer who, when I showed him the photos, thought he had checked their luggage. But he couldn’t swear to it. Of course, he’s seeing people all day and has handled the luggage of thousands of people since.’
‘That’s the trouble with a stone-cold trail,’ said Biggles.
‘The odd thing was, the thing that clicked in this chap’s memory was the boy wearing dark glasses, which at the time he thought a bit unusual. So if they were worn as a disguise they may have defeated their object. He says the man also wore glasses — ordinary spectacles.’
‘That doesn’t help us much,’ replied Biggles. ‘It’s unlikely that the glasses were necessary in either case so they might have been discarded as soon as Cornelli and the boy were safely in the country.’
‘I still think they were Cesare Paola and Carlo Salvatore,’ averred Eddie.
‘It seems to me,’ resumed Biggles, thoughtfully, ‘that young Carlo, assuming it is him, is still content to be with Cesare.’
‘You mean, Cornelli is letting the kid do what he likes.’
‘Why not? But I wasn’t thinking of that. I was thinking of the dark glasses. The boy must have wondered why he’d been asked to put them on. You say there’s nothing wrong with his eyes. Cesare would have to give a reason. What reason could he give except tell the truth and say it was to avoid being recognized. If Carlo accepted that explanation he’s obviously still satisfied to be with Cesare. Aside from that, had he realized he’d been kidnapped and demanded to be taken home there was nothing to prevent him from making a scene at the airport. There are plenty of officials there who would want to know what was going on. Carlo is old enough to tell them. It looks more and more to me, Eddie, that Cesare is being clever, and your first theory was right. Carlo doesn’t realize he’s been kidnapped; nor does he understand the danger he’s in. He’s having a good time and is prepared to carry on with it.’
‘I guess that’s it,’ agreed Eddie. ‘But as far as we’re concerned it’s still a case of kidnapping.’
‘Of course it is.’
‘And in the States that’s a crime that can mean the death penalty.’
‘Cesare’s not likely to forget that,’ asserted Biggles. ‘He’ll take no chances of being put in the electric chair. If we ever catch up with him he’ll fight it out.’
‘Of course he will. You see the peril the kid’s in. With the penalty the same for kidnapping as for murder, Cesare could get nothing worse if he killed the boy when he gets sick of carting him around.’
‘True enough,’ agreed Biggles. ‘Well, there’s nothing more we can do at present. We shall just have to leave it to Gaskin.’
‘And if he can’t find ‘em?’
Biggles shrugged. ‘You look like spending the rest of your life searching every country in the world. You can stay with us while we’re waiting. We can find you a shakedown in our quarters.’
‘Thanks,’ acknowledged Eddie, gratefully. ‘I shall then be with you should anything turn up.’
CHAPTER 3
FIVE days passed. Eddie became more and more depressed as each one went by without news. ‘They must have skipped the country,’ he declared despondently.
‘You Americans are always in such a hurry,’ Biggles told him. ‘I told you this job couldn’t be done in five minutes. Give Gaskin a chance. When our police say they can’t find ‘em will be time enough for you to start studying the map of Europe.’
It was during the afternoon of the sixth day that the tension
was released as if a steel spring had snapped. They were all in Biggles’s office discussing the possibilities for the hundredth time when the door opened and the bulky figure of Inspector Gaskin loomed on the threshold. ‘We’ve found ‘em,’ he announced, with no more emotion than if he was speaking of a lost pair of spectacles.
Eddie sprang to his feet. ‘You have!’ he exclaimed, delightedly.
‘That’s what I said,’ returned the Inspector, taking a penknife from his pocket and scraping out the bowl of his pipe in Biggles’s ash-tray. ‘Sorry it took so long,’ he added, inconsequentially.
‘Where are they?’ cried Eddie.
‘You’d never guess.’
Eddie nearly choked. ‘Cripes! There are times when you English kill me. I’m not guessing. Where are they?’
‘In Scotland.’
‘Where in Scotland?’ asked Biggles.
‘About as far off the map as they could get. They must have got the name out of a guide-book or something. We’ve just got word through from the Banffshire police they’re staying at a pub in the Highlands, a place called Tomintoul. It’s said to be the highest village in the U.K.’
‘What’s the name of the pub?’
‘A medium-sized sporting hotel called the Richmond Arms. I’ve got you all the details that might be useful. The village is about fourteen miles from the nearest railway, which is a little branch line which makes contact with the main line at Aviemore Junction.’
Said Biggles: ‘There’s no doubt about them being there?’
‘Well, I haven’t been there myself to see, if that’s what you mean. All I know is what I’m told, but you can reckon there’s no mistake about that. There are two people staying at the pub under the name you gave me—Cornelli. Father and son. That should be good enough. There can’t be so many Cornellis about.’
‘What are they doing there?’
‘What most people do who go there this time o’ the year. About all there is to do.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Fishing.’
