Biggles - Air Detective

by W E Johns

  “I send my fleeces to Vanberger,” explained Paullson. “He knew I had an aircraft. He came here to see me on business. I happened to be out of cigarettes and he said he could get me plenty, if I would help. That’s really all there was to it.”

  “I am afraid there was more to it than that,” said Biggles seriously. “Those parcels contained contraband to the tune of £2,000 a time.”

  Paullson dropped into a chair, lips apart, eyes wide. “The crook,” he breathed heavily. “I’ll go and withdraw that last consignment.”

  “Nothing of the sort,” Biggles told him. “Let it go. I imagine Vanberger will be at Baltroonie to collect it.”

  “You’re asking me to give him away,” protested Paullson.

  “Listen to me,” said Biggles earnestly. “Somebody is going to gaol over this business. If Vanberger has his way, it’ll be you. If you’ve any sense it’ll be him. You’ve one chance to save yourself, and because I believe your version I’m going to give you that chance. You’ve got to turn King’s Evidence. You needn’t be squeamish about it because Vanberger has no interest in you and he’s played the dirty on you all along.”

  Paullson buried his face in his hands. “This will about kill my mother when she hears of it.”

  “You might have thought of that earlier.”

  “All right,” agreed Paullson wearily. “What else do you want to know?”

  “What times does the island steamer discharge cargo at Baltroonie?”

  “Half-past eight tomorrow morning.”

  “Good. Then we’ve plenty of time. What’s the name of the man on the Sirocco who throws the stuff overboard?”

  “I’ve no idea. I wasn’t interested. I only know that after the ship has docked he goes to Vanberger for payment.”

  “And that’s all you can tell me?”

  “That’s all I know. I must have been crazy.”

  “You were. Will you give me your word that you won’t be such a fool again?”

  “I’ve had my lesson,” said Paullson bitterly. “If ever I get my hands on that lying crook Vanberger I’ll knock his block off.”

  “It’s unlikely that you’ll get your hands on him because, unless I’ve missed my guess, he’ll be going somewhere where you won’t be able to get to him. I’ll be moving along now. You stay here until you hear from me again. One last word of advice. Lay off that bottle. The stuff’s expensive, and it makes neither for clear thinking nor good flying. So long. Come on, Ginger.”

  By the time they were at the water-front the steamer, having picked up its freight, was on its way. A minute or two later Biggles passed over it as he set a course for the mainland.

  “Make a signal to the Chief,” he told Ginger. “Ask him to have Mr. Videll in the office at seven o’clock this evening. You can say I have news for him.”

  “Okay.” Ginger turned on the radio transmitter.

  At five minutes to seven, when they walked into the Air Commodore’s office, Mr. Videll was already there.

  “What’s the news?” he asked eagerly. “My word! You move fast.”

  “That’s what aeroplanes are for,” Biggles told him, smiling.

  “I’m all agog to hear what you’ve discovered.”

  Biggles answered: “At eight-thirty tomorrow morning one of MacRowden’s regular service Scottish west coast steamers will put into Baltroonie to handle freight and passengers. In her cargo are several bales of wool—fleeces of black wool. One has a plain yellow label. In it, wrapped in the wool, you’ll find your next consignment of nylons.”

  Mr. Videll stared. “Are you pulling my leg?”

  “No. I’m too tired to play games. I’ve travelled quite a few miles since I last saw you.”

  “Do you know to whom this wool is consigned?”

  “A Glasgow firm named Louis Vanberger & Co.”

  “How did the nylons get in the wool—can you tell me that?”

  “I can. They were put in by a man who didn’t know what was in the parcel,” said Biggles. “I’ve satisfied myself of that. The man you want is Vanberger—or the man who handles his stuff. You can pick him up at Baltroonie with the goods on him, or you can let him go and check up on the addresses of all the parcels he sends out during the next few days. That should provide you with a list of his distributing agents in London. You could then get the whole bunch in the bag together. Incidentally, you were on the right track with the Sirocco. A member of the crew brings the stuff over from America. He goes to Vanberger’s office for the pay-off. If you watch the crew of the ship, and Vanberger’s office, you should get your man.”

  The Air Commodore was smiling at the expression on the face of the Liaison Officer, who naturally wanted to know how all this information had been gathered in so short a time.

  “That’s a trade secret,” chaffed Biggles.

  “But how on earth did the nylons get into a bale of wool on board an island steamer?” cried Mr. Videll.

  “The earth had nothing to do with it,” Biggles told him. “The trick was worked partly by water and partly by air. Of course, the skipper of the steamer has no idea of what he’s carrying; and, as I told you, the man who put the parcel on board didn’t know what was in it. He was merely the dupe of some smart guys. I’ve had a word with him and he’s ready to turn King’s Evidence, which should be all you need to send the real crooks to where they can’t get into mischief for a long while. So I hope you’ll be able to fix things to let him off with a caution, even if you have to summons him—which I hope you won’t. He’s had his lesson; it’s shaken him pretty badly, and he’s given me his word that the thing won’t happen again.”

  The Air Commodore put in a word. “All the same, hadn’t we better cancel his pilot’s licence to make sure?”

  “No,” answered Biggles. “He did a good job in the last war. If there’s another, we shall need him, so he might as well keep his hand in. Moreover, he’s maintaining a little establishment that we may be glad to use on some occasion.”

  “All right, if you say so,” agreed the Air Commodore. He turned to the Board of Trade official. “That, Mr. Videll, should be as much as you need to know.”

  The official got up. “Yes, and a thousand thanks. We can handle the rest of the case ourselves.” He sighed. “It looks as if nylons are going to be in short supply again.”

  Biggles opened the door for him. “There shouldn’t be as many about as there were, even in the black market.”

  Mr. Videll hesitated. “As a matter of detail, what is the line of business of this fellow whom Vanberger got to do his dirty work?”

  “Sheep,” answered Biggles smiling. “Black sheep.”

  “How very appropriate.”

  “But he isn’t one of them.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” promised Mr. Videll as he closed the door.

  [Back to Contents]

  THE CASE OF THE VISITING SULTAN

  BIGGLES jumped down from the cockpit of an Auster aircraft which he had just been testing. “She’s still inclined to fly a bit left wing low,” he told Flight-Sergeant Smyth, who came forward from where he had been watching.

  “I’ll attend to it, sir,” promised the Flight-Sergeant. “Air Commodore Raymond is waiting for you in the Ops Room.”

  Biggles walked on, pulling off his gloves. Entering the Operations Room, he threw them, with his cap, into a chair and turned to the Air Commodore, who, with a worried expression on his face and hands thrust deep into trousers pockets, stood waiting. “’Morning, sir,” greeted Biggles cheerfully. “Or is it a good morning?” he added softly.

  “Is there any question about it?” inquired the Air Commodore irritably.

  “From your expression I’d say you’re not interested in the weather, anyhow,” murmured Biggles.

  “Quite right, I’m not,” was the curt rejoinder.

  Biggles sighed, reached for a cigarette, lit it and dropped into a chair. “Some people say that the best thing to do with a spot of bother is to pass it on
to someone else,” he suggested. “If you agree, go right ahead. I’m listening.”

  The Air Commodore nodded gloomily. “Very well. If you read the newspapers you may have noticed an item to the effect that a native ruler named Oba I’Mobi, Sultan of Lashanti, in West Africa, is coming to London for the Colonial Conference.”

  “I didn’t notice it, and, speaking personally, I couldn’t care less,” returned Biggles evenly.

  “As is customary with native princes he insists on bringing with him his court regalia.”

  “And just what does that consist of?”

  “Diamonds, mostly. Some of the best diamonds in the world are found in the gravel which comprises much of the Sultan’s territory. Naturally, he has the pick. So did his forebears. The result is a collection of considerable size and perfect quality.”

  “Pretty to see, no doubt; but I wouldn’t stand in a queue for a private view of them,” averred Biggles. “What have they to do with me, anyway?”

  “Nothing—yet; but they are giving me a headache,” asserted the Air Commodore. “It happens that the Sultan, having been educated in this country, is a young man with progressive ideas, in which, being wealthy, he can indulge. Among other civilised conveniences he possesses an aircraft, a hangar, and a private airfield adjacent to his palace.”

  “Who flies the plane?”

  “He does. He got a B Licence while he was over here.”

  “What’s the machine?”

  “An elderly photographic reconnaissance Mosquito which he bought from Disposals. In it he intends to fly himself and his young son to London.”

  “The machine has plenty of range and ought to be able to make the run non-stop,” declared Biggles. “What’s the worry? Are you afraid he’ll lose his way?”

  “If he did he would have himself to blame,” answered the Air Commodore bitterly. “Until a few hours ago I was not in the least concerned. Unfortunately a factor has just arisen which has spoilt the appetites of those of us responsible for His Highness’s safety. Did you ever hear of a man named Rocky Cordova?”

  “The name rings a bell, but I can’t place it.”

  “Rocky Cordova is America’s number one bad man. For a long time now the Federal Police have tried in vain to get him by the pin-feathers. Like the Sultan he thinks on modern lines. Like the Sultan he is rich and lives in a palace surrounded by guards. Like the Sultan he employs a private aircraft for fast transportation. Again like the Sultan—and this is the real wasp in the jam—he collects diamonds. He boasts that he has the best collection in the United States, which may be true, since he has for years been taking them from their rightful owners. Hence the nickname Rocky—rocks being the crook’s vernacular for diamonds.”

  Biggles shrugged. “All right. So Rocky collects rocks. I haven’t any, so he won’t improve his collection at my expense.”

  “This morning,” went on the Air Commodore coldly, “my opposite number in New York rang up to give me the tip that Rocky has gone for a holiday —by air, of course. Through a stool-pigeon they know where he has gone, and it is not the sort of place a man would go for his health. Guess where.”

  Biggles smiled faintly. “The penny has dropped. My guess is West Africa.”

  “You’ve got it in one.”

  “And you’ve got a feeling that he may be aiming to get some bigger and better diamonds?”

  “Can you think of any other reason why a man of his type should take a vacation so far from the high-spots in which he delights to swank?”

  “No—unless he’s made a quick getaway from the police.”

  “The police have nothing on him. So far he’s always outsmarted them. We’ve got to see he doesn’t outsmart us by lifting the Sultan’s decorations.”

  “How’s he going to do that—by breaking into the palace?”

  “Not a hope. The place bristles with armed guards. If only the Sultan would stay there we should have nothing to worry about. If Rocky is on the job he’ll make his grab between Lashanti and London.”

  “Have you any reason to suppose that he’s on the job?”

  “No, but his arrival in West Africa at this moment can hardly he coincidence. Rightly or wrongly, I’m bound to work on the assumption that Rocky is after the Sultan’s rocks.”

  Biggles took another cigarette and tapped it thoughtfully. “What machine does Rocky fly?”

  “A converted American war type; a single-engined, four-seat attack plane called the Cobra. At least, it’s supposed to be converted, but there’s reason to suspect that it still carries its armament. The Sultan’s Mosquito is unarmed. The Cobra is slightly faster.”

  “Does Rocky fly himself?”

  “No. He employs a Mexican ex-war pilot named Juan Laroula.” Biggles got up and studied a wall map of the world. “It’s hard to see what Rocky can do once the Mosquito is off the ground,” he opined. “If he shot the Mosquito down it might go up in flames, in which case I imagine the diamonds would be ruined?”

  “He might not find it necessary to do that. He might, by using his guns, force the Sultan to land. An unarmed pilot, suddenly attacked, would instinctively make for the ground.”

  “True enough,” admitted Biggles. ‘“But there’s only one place where that could happen. For the first part of the run the Mosquito will be over sheer jungle where, if it crashed, Rocky couldn’t get to it, anyway. The last half of the journey, assuming the Sultan takes the direct route, will be over water, and there would be no point in shooting him down in the drink. There’s just one area where a landing might be made, and that’s a place I should be sorry to choose myself. I mean the Spanish territory, Rio de Oro, which is mostly desert of the worst sort. A machine flying from Lashanti to London dead on its course would be over it for an hour or so. If Rocky intends to attack the Mosquito it will be there, because it would be pointless to force it down anywhere else.” Biggles returned to his chair. “Where exactly is Rocky now?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted the Air Commodore. “I haven’t had time even to start enquiries. It would be a simple matter for him to slip over the African coast at night, or above the overcast if there was any cloud.”

  “And once in he could lie low for weeks if necessary, unless native rumour gave him away,” observed Biggles. “There’s no shortage of landing grounds. Scores of landing strips were put down from the West Coast to Egypt for American machines carrying war stores to the Middle East.”

  “Rocky’s pilot, Laroula, was on that run for two years, so he should know all about them,” muttered the Air Commodore. “We haven’t time to search thousands of square miles of wild country.”

  “When does the Sultan leave for England?”

  “A week today. Naturally he’ll leave in the morning to do the trip in daylight.”

  “Would Rocky know that?”

  “Unfortunately, not anticipating anything of this sort, the trip and the date were given publicly in the press. No doubt that’s how Rocky knew about it.”

  “How about getting the Sultan to alter the date?”

  “He couldn’t without upsetting all his arrangements. Besides, what reason could we give? If we told him the truth I doubt if he’d believe it.”

  “Probably it wouldn’t do any good, anyway,” murmured Biggles. “If Rocky is as smart as they say, he’d anticipate such a move and be ready for it. I’d say he’ll park himself somewhere along the route north of Lashanti. In that case he’d only have to wait for the Mosquito to come along.”

  “You’re not helping me,” complained the Air Commodore. “Can’t you be a bit more constructive?”

  “How about providing an R.A.F. escort all the way?” suggested Biggles.

  The Air Commodore shook his head. “Even if it were practicable, that wouldn’t do. For one thing it would arouse the jealousy of other potentates who, not having an escort, would think the Sultan was being specially honoured. Again, we can’t fly service planes over foreign territory without permission, and that would take more time
than we have available.”

  Biggles shrugged a shoulder. “Well, what are you going to do? If there’s anything I can do, tell me and I’ll do it.”

  “I came to you as a practical pilot for a suggestion,” declared the Air Commodore. “The Sultan won’t change his plans. He’s dead keen on attending the conference, and if we asked him not to come he might suspect a sinister reason, in which case we should lose his friendship.”

  “If he comes, and gets bumped off on the way, you’ll lose his friendship, anyhow,” Biggles pointed out grimly. He looked at the Air Commodore suspiciously. “I believe you’ve had an idea at the back of your mind all the time we’ve been talking.”

  “Well—er—yes. Matter of fact, I had, but I thought I’d explore all the possibilities before I broached it. Frankly, I thought you might fly out and form a sort of unofficial escort.”

  “I thought of that, but I didn’t suggest it because I couldn’t see what good it could do,” answered Biggles. “I mean, I couldn’t very well attack a machine on the mere suspicion that it was going to attack the Sultan; and if I waited for the attack to be made I should be too late to save the Mosquito. True, I might get Rocky, but that wouldn’t help the Sultan if he had already been shot to bits. Just a minute, though.” Biggles thought for a minute. “There may be one way out of the difficulty,” he went on slowly. “Have we got a resident official in Lashanti?”

  “Yes. Sir Milton Chambers, Governor of the colony.”

  “Would he co-operate with us?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “All right. Then let us try the old Q-ship trick. If it came off it should give the Sultan a safe trip and might dispose of this dangerous crook at the same time. This is all you have to do. Ask Sir Milton to start a rumour that the Sultan has decided to start an hour earlier than he intended. Rocky will hear it and switch his time-table accordingly. Get me a Mosquito from the Air Ministry, complete with guns. I’ll fly it out. On the morning of the flight I’ll take off at the hour which, according to the rumour, the Sultan should leave the ground. I then head for home. If Rocky is on the job he’ll come for me, supposing me to be the Sultan. We then settle the business between us. Whether he gets me, or I get him, the Sultan, starting an hour later, should get through without interference. How’s that?”