Another Job For Biggles

by W E Johns

  “I’m afraid you’re going to find it difficult to locate Hamud,” said Norman thoughtfully. “It’s pretty certain he isn’t in Aden, which means that he might be anywhere within five hundred miles. He might have taken on with another expedition, although if he had I should have thought that I’d have known about it. All I’ve been able to find out is, he appeared in Aden a few weeks ago. Then he disappeared again. There’s nothing remarkable about that because these camel-men are always coming and going. I got this information out of the woman where he lives, under the pretext of organising another crossing of the Rub al Khali. An Arab I know, who keeps in touch with things, told me that while Hamud was here he was seen with Nicolo Ambrimos. In fact, they went into Ambrimos’ office. He may have got a job with him. Ambrimos employs a lot of Arabs in one way or another.”

  “Who is Ambrimos?” asked Biggles.

  Norman smiled. “The Sultan. That’s his nickname here. He’s a very successful business man, a man of many interests, but primarily an incense merchant, although he handles anything in the way of merchandise. He owns several dhows with which he runs a coastal transport service, picking up dates from Muscat, coffee from Mocha—anything that’s going, in fact. He carries general freight for anyone, and as he owns one of the few concerns that call at the smaller Red Sea ports, he is really very useful. At one time he was talking of starting an air line between Muscat and Egypt, for urgent mail and small stufff—and he may be going on with it for all I know. But I’ve heard nothing about the scheme lately so he may have dropped it. From the way his business has prospered, he must be pretty shrewd. He has made a lot of money. The whisper here is, he got his start by dabbling in honey.”

  “Honey?” Biggles looked surprised. “I haven’t noticed the bees or the flowers.”

  Norman chuckled. “Honey, my dear fellow, is the local name for hashish.”

  “I see,” said Biggles slowly, his eyes on Norman’s face. “Dope, eh?”

  “That’s only rumour, so don’t take my word for it,” replied Norman. “Honey is a profitable line so long as you don’t get caught with it. Fortunes have been made out of it, and are still being made, in spite of the Government’s efforts to stop it. But what hope has the Government got when half the population of the Middle East uses it? Here, hashish is what tobacco is to Britain.”

  Biggles stroked his chin. “Hm. I wonder if that could account for the Sultan’s interest in Hamud?”

  “Could be,” agreed Norman. “Hamud might be a carrier for him in his spare time. There’s no doubt that a lot of hashish finds its way into Egypt on the back of a camel.”

  “Tell me more about this man,” requested Biggles. “ I might as well explore every possibility while I’m here. What’s his nationality?”

  Norman shook his head. “That’s anyone’s guess. Mine is that he’s a Levantine of very mixed parentage. He’s a charming man, mind you. He speaks English as well as we do. In fact, he claims he was at Oxford; I’ve never checked up and it may be true, but I doubt it. He must be in his fifties now. Very particular about his personal appearance—buys expensive clothes and all that. In one word I’d call him elegant. He owns offices and warehouses and lives in one of the best villas in the place.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Are you thinking of calling on him?”

  “I might.”

  “For what purpose? If he had an interest in this new dope, he’d hardly be likely to admit it.”

  “He might know where Hamud is to be found. If he knows, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t tell me—provided he has no personal interest in the man’s visit to the Wadi al Arwat.”

  “I see what you mean. He’ll wonder what you want with him, anyway.”

  “I could tell him I’m thinking of organising an expedition to look for signs of oil in the desert, and I got Hamud’s name, with a strong recommendation, from Doctor Darnley.”

  Norman looked pensive. “You could try it, but even if he knows where Hamud is—and if Hamud called on him when he was in the town he probably will know—it’s unlikely that he’ll tell you. You don’t get straight answers to questions in this part of the world. Still, I don’t see that you could do any harm as long as you don’t let him spot your real interest. Be careful. The Sultan has spies everywhere, remember. That’s in the ordinary course of business. He’s the first man to know what the date crop is likely to be in any district you care to name. He knows what the next frankincense yield will be like, and the quality. In that way he controls the market. If a big pearl is found anywhere on the coast, the Sultan is the first man to know about it. He pays for such information. That, as I say, is straightforward business here, and such methods are not unknown at home if it comes to that.”

  “Quite,” murmured Biggles. “By the same token, if the secret of the new narcotic leaked out he would be the first to hear about it. And if—I say if—Hamud had been one of his hashish smugglers, he’d probably go to the man with the story for the sake of the reward which he knew would be forthcoming.”

  Norman nodded. “There’s something in that,” he agreed. “But you watch your step, my lad, or one dark night you’ll find a dagger in your ribs. That’s what happens to people here if they start asking too many questions.”

  “So I believe,” replied Biggles. “But I’m satisfied that the only gurra that was brought here arrived in Hamud’s bag. Kuatim died in the desert. Zahar’s bag, and its contents, I bought from him, so we know where that is. Darnley himself we can rule out. That only leaves Hamud. If he had only some gurra I wouldn’t mind, because that would soon be used up. But he collected seeds, and while there are seeds there will be plants, and while there are plants there will be dope. I’ve got to get those seeds or find out where they went.”

  Norman looked grave. “Be very careful. I’ll help you as much as I can,” he promised. “Tomorrow I’ll take a stroll along the water-front. One of the Sultan’s dhows is in. There’s just a chance that I might pick up news of Hamud.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?” queried Biggles dubiously. “If you let it be known that you’re looking for Hamud people will wonder why. The man who really knows, and I imagine somebody does know, will hear about it. He may also hear that we’ve been with you and link the two things together.”

  “There’s always that possibility, of course.”

  “Surely the man to make enquiries is Zahar,” opined Biggles. “It’s known that he has been associated with Hamud, so such enquiries would be quite natural. It’s hardly likely that Hamud will have told anyone about what happened in the desert. And anyhow, Zahar is on his own account anxious to find the fellow who pinched his camel and left him to perish in the wilderness.”

  “Quite right,” concurred Norman. “Zahar is the man for the job.”

  “Perhaps you’d better ask Zahar to try to find out where Hamud has gone,” suggested Biggles. “I’d rather not be seen talking to him too much in Aden, or the people we’re up against might put two and two together. It’s pretty certain they don’t know about the affair in the desert. In fact, it’s just possible that they told Hamud to dispose of his companions, who subsequently might talk too much.”

  Norman nodded. “I think you’re right. One can’t be too careful. How about a drink?”

  “I could do with one,” admitted Biggles. “Talking is thirsty work. I’d like something long and cold.”

  “Iced lemon?” questioned Norman.

  “That’ll do fine.”

  The other made the same choice. Norman pressed the bell and gave the order to a dark-skinned waiter who answered it.

  “Well, I don’t think there’s anything more we can do for the moment,” remarked Biggles, as the waiter served the drinks. “I’ll go along and see Ambrimos about some men for my oil prospecting outfit.”

  “Oil has been found in several areas not far away,” remarked Norman.

  “So I believe,” returned Biggles. He took a long drink from his glass as Norman signe
d the chit for the drinks, and the waiter departed.

  “I’ll send my man along to Zahar right away to say that I want to see him in the morning,” promised Norman.

  “Are you going alone to see Ambrimos?” Ginger asked Biggles.

  “I think so. There’s no need for us all to go. I’ll go straight back to the hotel afterwards. What’s the Sultan’s address, Norman?”

  “The Villa el Paloma in the Stretta Fontana. Biggish place, with double entrance gates. Stands back on the left. You can’t miss it. It used to belong to an Italian count.”

  Biggles lingered a little wliile over his drink and then got up. “I’ll drift along,” he said, and collecting his hat from the vestibule went out into the hot, starry night.

  He walked to the Villa el Paloma, one reason bemg that he felt like a little exercise, and another, he wanted to think. He found the house without difficulty in the blue moonlight. White-painted and lavishly decorated, it was even more imposing than he had expected. He went up the drive to the front door and rang the bell. The door was opened by an Arab footman in spotless white, who, in reply to Biggles’s enquiry as to whether Mr. Ambrimos was at home, invited him into a hall that was adorned with so much costly furniture that it was obviously intended to impress visitors.

  Biggles was, in fact, impressed. The Villa was clearly the home of a man of wealth. The Arab salaamed and beckoned. Biggles followed him to one of several doors leading off the hall, where he was then shown into a room filled with a mixture of European and Oriental furniture. A horsehair sofa looked strangely out of place between two Turkish divans.

  A man came round a desk, at which he had evidently been seated, hand outstretched. “Good evening, Major Bigglesworth,” said he, blandly. “Luckily I was spending the evening at home or I might have missed you. So you are thinking of looking for an oil concession in the district?”

  Biggles took the proffered hand hoping that his face did not express the surprise he certainly felt at this unexpected greeting. It had, he realised, been chosen for that very reason; but that did not explain how the man knew his name or business, for he had announced neither. However, the remark betrayed one weakness in the man—vanity. It flattered him to show off his inside knowledge of other people’s business.

  “You seem very well informed, Sir,” answered Biggles calmly.

  “A man has to be, in this part of the world, you know, if he would hold his own with his competitors,” was the sauve reply. “Please be seated.”

  “Your information let you down in one respect,” asserted Biggles. “Who told you I was a major?”

  The Sultan smiled. “No one,” he admitted readily. “But it’s good policy to give a man a title above his station. It puts him on good terms with himself.”

  “Well, you’re frank about it, anyway,” returned Biggles.

  “And why not?”

  “Why not, indeed?” Biggles spoke cautiously, for his mind was busy trying to work out how the man had forestalled his excuse that he was looking for oil, for he had mentioned this to no one except Norman, who was, presumably, still at the Club. Not only was Ambrimos already in possession of this information, but Biggles had a feeling that the man was expecting him. Clearly, his spies had wasted no time.

  “What can I offer you in the way of refreshment?” asked the Sultan.

  Biggles glanced at the table. “I see you were just having some coffee.”

  “I was.”

  “May I have some?”

  “Of course. I can recommend it, for I grow it myself at Mocha. Mocha coffee has lost its popularity, but it is still the best.” Ambrimos clapped his hands.

  The footman appeared instantly.

  “Fresh coffee and two cups,” ordered the Sultan curtly. He turned to Biggles. “Will you take a little brandy with it?”

  “No thanks.” Biggles smiled. “I still hold the old-fashioned notion that alcohol in a hot climate is something one is better without.”

  “A pity more of your countrymen don’t take that view,” returned Ambrimos. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  Biggles had by this time taken stock of his host, and he saw that Norman’s description, while brief, had been apt. An “elegant Levantine” described him exactly. He judged the man to be in the early fifties, with the unhealthy stoutness that so often goes with that age in the East. His face was round and clean-shaven, with a skin of that curious intermediate tint that is usually the result of a mixture of European and Asiatic blood. His hair was black, and brushed so flat that it gleamed like patent-leather. His dress, in old-fashioned European style, was immaculate. He wore a frock-coat, striped trousers and patent leather shoes. A massive gold watch-chain hung across his paunch.

  “Well, you seem to know my business, so I’ll come to the point right away,” said Biggles. “Did you by any chance meet Doctor Darnley when he was here?”

  The Sultan pushed forward an expensive-looking box of cigars. “Yes, indeed. I know him well. A most charming man. I had the honour of helping him to equip his last expedition.”

  “I was hoping to find in Aden three Arab camel-men who accompanied him on that occasion,” explained Biggles. “He speaks very highly of them.”

  “But surely you don’t need Arabs for an air operation?”

  Biggles had not mentioned aircraft but he allowed the reference to pass.

  “True,” he agreed. “But one can’t find oil from the air. An air survey may reveal likely areas, and even oil-bearing strata, but at the finish the surveyor must examine the ground on his feet.”

  “Quite so. Quite so. Of course. Who are these men you had in mind?”

  “Their names were Abu bin Hamud, Kuatim and Zahar,” answered Biggles.

  The Sultan massaged his smooth cheeks thoughtfully. “I remember them, but where they are now I couldn’t even guess. I have a vague idea they went off into the desert on some business of their own and as far as I know they haven’t come back. In fact, I haven’t seen them since they returned from Darnley’s expedition. May I ask who told you that I might be able to help you in this matter?”

  “Certainly,” returned Biggles, realising that it was no use dissembling, for if the man knew about the oil survey he must know where the project was discussed, and with whom. “I was speaking in the Club with Captain Norman and asked his advice. He told me you were the best-informed man in Aden.”

  The Sultan laughed softly. “He was probably right, too. But on this occasion, I am afraid, my intelligence service has failed me.”

  Biggles sipped the coffee that had been placed before him on a small table. It gave him an opportunity to think. He knew that the man must be lying for according to Norman he had been seen with Hamud when the Arab had returned from the wadi; and if he had spoken to Hamud, the chances were that he knew what had happened to Kuatim and Zahar. Hamud, no doubt, supposed his companions to be dead. The Sultan, therefore, would have the same belief.

  Biggles decided to fire a shot in the dark. “How long is it since you saw any of these men?” he queried.

  “Oh, months ago.”

  “In that case your intelligence service certainly did let you down,” said Biggles quietly, with his eyes on the Sultan’s face. “You see, there is talk of Zahar having been seen in Aden quite recently.”

  The shot found its mark. The Sultan started slightly. He frowned. For several seconds he was silent. Then he said sharply: “Who told you that?”

  “Somebody happened to mention it in passing,” answered Biggles casually.

  “I’m sure he must have been mistaken,” declared the Sultan.

  “Why?” asked Biggles evenly. “Was there any reason why he shouldn’t return to Aden?”

  “No—no... Of course not,” said Ambrimos quickly. “I mean,” he corrected himself, “no reason that I know of. I will enquire into this.”

  There was something in the way the Sultan said the last few words that made Biggles regret he had divulged the fact that Zahar had returned. He perceived
now that he might have put the Arab in danger. If Ambrimos wanted him to be dead, the chances were that he soon would be.

  Biggles got up. “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Ambrimos. It was kind of you to see me. I shall probably be in Aden for a day or two, so if you should learn anything of these men, perhaps you will let me know.”

  “I will, most certainly,” promised Ambrimos emphatically.

  He himself saw Biggles to the door, showed him out and after a final assurance of his co-operation, closed it behind him.

  Chapter 5

  Knotty Problems

  DEEP in thought, Biggles walked slowly down the shrub-fringed drive towards the gates. He had not learned much, but his time, he felt, had not been wasted. The man he had just left was typical of a type fairly common in the Middle East—shrewd, self-centred, and utterly unscrupulous where his interests were concerned; interests that revolved chiefly about the business of making money. That he had little regard for truth was demonstrated when he said he had not seen Hamud. Indeed, he had professed complete ignorance. Yet, if Norman was to be believed, not only had he seen him but he had taken him into his office. Why had he lied? pondered Biggles. A man only lies when he has something to hide. Still, the fact that he was a liar did not necessarily mean that he was connected with the new drug. Yet he was just the sort of man who would be interested, the sort of man who would instantly perceive its possibilities as a means of making big profits.