by W E Johns
“Why did you do that?” Eddie asked Biggles.
“Just a precaution. If Ginger should run into trouble we would at least know where the taxi dropped him. Marcel could soon get that information for us—as long as we have the number of the cab.”
“I wouldn’t have thought of a detail like that,” confessed Eddie.
Biggles lit a cigarette. “You’ll find it’s often the little things that turn out to be the most important,” he observed, tritely.
There came a knock on the door. At Biggles’ invitation it was opened to admit the page, who presented a slip of paper on a tray. “The number monsieur wanted,” he said.
“Merci bien, mon petit,” acknowledged Biggles, taking the paper. “Voilà.” He dropped some coins on the tray.
The boy smiled. “Merci, monsieur.” He went out.
Biggles noted the number on the paper, folded it up and put it in his note-case.
“I must say you don’t overlook chances,” said Eddie.
“If you miss chances at this game, my lad, you may soon be missing yourself,” returned Biggles, lightly. “Keep an eye on Macula while I organize a pot of tea. Five o’clock tea is one of the English habits I take abroad with me.”
CHAPTER III
GINGER GOES ALONE
IT was with confidence that Ginger set off on what he imagined would be a simple routine job. He had no reason to think otherwise, for he had done this sort of work before, sometimes in more difficult conditions. On this occasion he at least had the advantage of being unknown to the man he was shadowing.
He did not know Paris well enough to be able to follow the route they were taking, and more than once, in queues at traffic lights, he was afraid he might lose his man. On one occasion he found himself quite close to him, but as he was behind him he did not see much of his face. He watched for street names, but saw few. The last one he saw was the Boulevard de Clichy. Soon after this the leading cab turned into a narrow street, badly lighted except for a neon sign which, translated literally, read the Horse that Laughs.
Seeing his quarry stop below the sign he called sharply to his driver to do the same. The order obeyed, he saw the passenger in the leading car get out and enter the establishment with the comical name. He sat still for a few minutes, watching, and then, having paid his driver, strolled on to the door through which his man had disappeared. Observing that the place was a dance hall, or something of that sort, he went in, acknowledging the nod of a uniformed negro janitor. Before him was a fair-sized hall with a bar in one corner. Red plush benches, with tables at intervals, lined the walls, so making his way to a vacant length of bench he sat down prepared to watch for anything worth noting.
There were not many people present, as was to be expected at that hour in a public house that was evidently something between a dance hall and a brasserie. He could not see the man he had followed; nor did he seriously hope to do so, for he had caught no more than a glimpse of him and was by no means sure that he would recognize him again even if he saw him. In the circumstances, he pondered, there was really very little point in staying there, and for a moment or two he contemplated returning forthwith to Biggles, to report. However, as he was in no particular hurry he changed his mind, deciding that he might as well sit still for a few minutes if for no other reason than to form an opinion of the sort of customers who frequented the place.
A doddering old waiter, napkin on arm, ambled up to him for his order. Ginger shook his head, but then deciding that he could hardly occupy a seat without spending money called for a small black coffee.
No sooner had the waiter departed than a man moved from another seat and sat next to him, greeting him with an ingratiating smile.
“I say, old man,” he questioned huskily, “you’re English, aren’t you?”
“I am. Why?”
“I suppose you wouldn’t care to lend me a thousand francs,” was the surprising request. At least, Ginger found it surprising.
“No. You’re quite right, I wouldn’t,” returned Ginger. “Why should I?”
“Because I’m English, too.”
“What has that to do with it?”
“I’ve lost my wallet and now find myself stuck here without a sou. I can’t even pay my bill.”
“That’s your bad luck,” retorted Ginger. “What did you have that would cost a thousand francs? Champagne?” He had a suspicion the man had been drinking, and had not the slightest intention of paying for luxuries he could not himself afford.
“Five hundred, then.”
“You’re wasting your time,” said Ginger, shortly. “You won’t get a bean from me, so push off.”
The man had a good look at Ginger’s face, and finding there no sympathy sighed deeply and moved back to his original seat. He looked so pathetic that Ginger, relenting, a little ashamed that he had been so abrupt, was tempted to call him back; but feeling sure that if he gave the man money it would promptly be spent on liquor he hardened his heart and let him go. Perhaps the fact that he saw the waiter coming with his coffee had something to do with it.
Again he considered leaving, and probably would have done so had he not ordered the coffee, for at this juncture an orchestra filed in and the crash of percussion instruments did nothing to make the place more attractive. Even so, he couldn’t very well leave without paying for what he had ordered so he had more or less to sit still.
The waiter put the coffee on his table, and would have walked away, as is customary in France, had not Ginger called him back to insist on paying there and then. This would leave him free to go as soon as he had finished the coffee. Actually, it was so hot that he couldn’t drink it, and he had no alternative than to wait for it to cool. As one so often does in such circumstances he began taking it in small sips.
The cup was still half full when a feeling began to creep over him that the heat and general atmosphere of the place was getting him down. The din made by the band seemed to become distant, and the scene hazy, as if the lights had been turned down. With his handkerchief he mopped the beads of perspiration that had formed on his forehead. Deciding quickly that he could stand no more he rose to go, to discover with a shock that his legs were unable to support him. He swayed on his feet, and staggering when he again tried to move had to clutch at a table to prevent himself from falling. Some people sitting near, laughed.
Thinking he had been taken ill he flopped back in his seat. Hoping, and feeling certain, the feeling of faintness would soon pass, he rested his elbows on the table with his head between his hands. This only seemed to make matters worse. To his increasing alarm the room began to spin and he feared he was going to faint.
A hand fell on his shoulder. Looking up with an effort he saw the whirling face of the negro doorkeeper, huge and distorted, looking down at him. Another man was with him. Ginger tried desperately to ask for water but his lips were dry and trembling and he could only mouth incoherently. His last recollection was of being lifted by strong hands.
When next he opened his eyes he saw, as through a mist, a man, a tall white man he had never seen before, standing over him with a glass in his hand. As things began to clear he discovered he was lying on a couch, no longer in the dance hall but in strange surroundings. The uniformed door keeper was not there, but another dark-skinned man was present. Feeling his strength returning, and feeling also somewhat ashamed of the exhibition he had made of himself, Ginger tried to rise, but the white man gently but firmly pushed him back.
The man said: “Feeling better?”
“Yes, thanks,” answered Ginger, trying to smile. “Sorry to have given you so much trouble. I must have fainted. Can’t imagine why.”
“Can’t you?”
“No. I’ve never done such a thing before. I’m all right now. Would you be so kind as to call me a taxi?”
From which it will be realized that he was still under the impression he had been overcome by the heat and noise in the dance hall and had passed out, an experience entirely new to hi
m. He wondered vaguely how long he had been unconscious. He had of course no idea. A glance at his watch told him. It also shook him. He was thinking it must have been a bad faint to put him ‘out’ for so long when the unknown man spoke again.
“There is no hurry,” he said. “Here, take another drink of this. It will pull you round completely.” He spoke in smooth, perfect English, with just a trace of foreign accent that told Ginger he was not an Englishman.
Ginger took the proffered glass gratefully and emptied it at a gulp to discover the man had told the truth. The liquid was pungent but acted like magic. The mist rolled away. “Thanks,” he said again. “That is most kind of you.” He looked around. “By the way, where am I?”
“Never mind where you are,” was the reply, with such a marked change of tone that Ginger started.
“What do you mean by that?” he inquired, wonderingly.
“I’m going to ask you some questions, and if you’re wise you’ll answer them.” The threat in the words was now unmistakable.
The truth struck Ginger like a blow as for the first time it dawned on him that his faint had not been due to natural causes. “So that was it.” He had been doped... given some knock-out drops. It must have been the coffee. Shock tied his tongue.
Any doubts he may have had about the reason were dispelled when the man went on. “Now listen carefully, my not-so-smart young friend. This evening, in a taxi, you followed another taxi to a dance hall called the Laughing Horse. Don’t lie by denying it.”
Ginger had no intention of denying it. It would obviously have been futile, anyway. So he had been spotted, he thought bitterly. He couldn’t imagine how or where he had slipped up. The reply he made was merely to gain time, time to adjust himself to the situation. “What gave you that idea? Why should I follow another taxi?”
The man smiled coldly. “The one you chose to follow happened to be fitted with a mirror to enable the passenger to see behind him without turning his head. He knew within a minute that he was being followed and he told me so.”
“Told you?” Ginger was still playing for time.
“By radio.”
“I didn’t know Paris taxis were equipped with two-way radio.”
“Mine are. But you weren’t to know that. I thought I’d better have a look at you so I ordered you to be brought here. Now, having I hope satisfied your natural curiosity, what have you to say for yourself?”
“What do you expect me to say?”
“Anything, as long as it is the truth. If it isn’t I shall soon know.”
Ginger understood now why the man in the cab had not paid the driver. He had noticed that, and should have been warned; or at least should have realized that the taxi was a private one. It was a slip for which he could have kicked himself.
“Why did you follow that cab?” went on the man, remorselessly.
Ginger did not answer. He could think of nothing convincing to say. To deny the charge would obviously be useless.
“Who ordered you to follow that cab?”
“A friend of mine was interested to know why he was being followed.”
“What’s his name?”
Ginger was silent.
“Was it that Yankee cop who sent you on this jaunt?”
“No,” replied Ginger, truthfully.
“Then who are you working for—Max?”
“Max who?”
“Don’t give me that. You know who I’m talking about. Max Bronnitz. Are you on his payroll?”
“I have nothing more to say,” retorted Ginger.
“That’s what you think. I may have a means of making you change your mind. I have no time to waste. Now, are you going to come clean?”
“No.” Ginger had realized by now that his interrogator had no suspicion that he was actually a police officer.
Being English, and in Paris, that was understandable. It was assumed, he thought, that he was working for an opposition gang, and decided it might be a good thing to play up that impression. “I’m no squealer,” he said.
“Have it your own way.” The speaker made a sign to the coloured man, who had stood by, watching. “See what you can do, Louis,” he ordered.
Louis wasted no time. Without warning he slapped Ginger across the face with a force that knocked him flat on the couch. “So you no talk, eh,” he leered, and took a razor from his pocket.
At this moment there was a peremptory double knock on the door.
“Wait a minute, Louis,” muttered the white man, irritably, and strode to the door.
It was the uniformed janitor. “Stranger just come in, boss. Ah don’t like the look of him. Englishman, I think. Thought I’d just let you know.”
“All right. Get back to the door.”
‘Yes, boss.”
The boss turned back to where his assistant was holding Ginger flat on the couch. “We’ll deal with him presently,” he said, indicating Ginger. “Meanwhile, give him something to keep him quiet.”
CHAPTER IV
TO THE LAUGHING HORSE
BIGGLES and Eddie sat talking long after they had finished their tea. Once Biggles broke off to put a call through to London to let Bertie know that his movements were uncertain and that he might not be back the following day as he had anticipated. He gave no details to account for the probable delay.
By the time he had done this darkness had fallen and the million lights of the French capital were glowing and winking in the gloom. From the street below the window, the Rue du Bac, came a steady roar of rush-hour traffic as workers in the city made for home. This comes rather later than in London. What with the darkness and the countless lights, moving and stationary, it was no longer possible to see Macula, and the question arose, was he still keeping watch? Biggles said he would go and find out, so leaving his new-found colleague he left the room. In two minutes he was back.
Eddie looked surprised, with good reason. “Gosh! That was quick work,” he remarked.
Biggles grinned. “I didn’t have to go far. In fact, I didn’t have to leave the lift. He’s sitting in the hall.”
“You mean—he’s in the hall of the hotel?”
“Yes. Luckily I spotted him so all I had to do was press the button and come back up.”
“He’s got a nerve!”
“No doubt he finds it more comfortable than outside. After all, the hall is more or less public. There are always people sitting there waiting for friends to come down, or come in.”
“Then it won’t be possible for me to leave without him seeing me go.”
“That, we may suppose, is what he believes; but he’s wrong. He’s forgotten one thing—that is, if he’s aware of its existence.”
“What’s that?”
“The service lift, the one used for baggage. It’s the other side of the front doors. When you’re ready to go get the floor waiter to take you down that way. Macula’s sitting where he can watch the stairs and the passenger lift, which, as you may have noticed, are side by side. He won’t see you go.”
“I shall soon have to be going, if only to get something to eat.”
“You can dine here if you like. The hotel has its own restaurant. By the way, you haven’t told me where you’re staying.”
“I’m at the Bristol.”
“I see.” Biggles looked at his watch. “I don’t know what to do next. What on earth can Ginger be doing all this time? Something must have happened to keep him. He can’t still be in that taxi. If he isn’t soon back I shall start worrying.”
“He may still be tailing someone.”
“Nothing else would have kept him so long. The question is, where has he landed?”
“Are you going out to look for him?”
“I shall have to if he doesn’t soon turn up. But it’s no use wandering about on the off-chance of meeting him. If he’s tailing a dope peddler he’s just as likely to be in one of the plush joints along the Champs Elysees as a low dive in the Montmartre district.” Biggles thought for a moment. “I
t’s half-past eight. I think I’ll have a word with Marcel.” He reached for the telephone.
“Listen, Marcel,” he went on, when the operator had put him through. “Yes, we’re still being watched. Macula has moved into the hall to make sure Eddie doesn’t give him the slip. But I’m getting a bit concerned about Ginger, who left here some time ago to tail a man who we saw make contact with Macula. The fellow was in a taxi and Ginger followed in another. I want to know where it dropped him, because he can’t still be in it. I managed to get the number of Ginger’s cab. This is it.” Biggles gave the number and went on, “He engaged it at four twenty-five precisely from the head of the rank in the middle of the street opposite this hotel. If you can get in touch with the driver he should be able to remember where he was paid off. Yes. I’ll wait here for you to ring me back. Eddie will probably stay with me. Good. Many thanks.” Biggles hung up. “This is where international co-operation comes in useful,” he told Eddie.
“It looks as if your idea of taking the number of Ginger’s cab was a wise move.”
“It’s our only chance now of finding out where he went.”
“Will Marcel be able to locate the driver of the taxi?”
“Quite easily, I’d say. They have these things well organized in Paris.”
“You think Ginger may have run into trouble?”
“Something must have gone wrong or he’d have been back by now. Whether one knows it or not one is usually on thin ice from the moment one tries to interfere with a dope ring,” said Biggles seriously. “To such an organization the removal of anyone who gets in the way, or knows too much, is all a part of the business.”
It was forty minutes before Marcel came back on the phone.
“No,” reported Biggles. “He isn’t back yet. You’ve got it? Good work.” After that he listened for some time, making notes on the pad beside the telephone and occasionally interpolating a remark. “Yes, I know the district fairly well.... That’s interesting, but perhaps not surprising... yes, I shall go round right away as long as you don’t mind me barging in on your home ground. Should anything serious have happened I’ll call you right away, naturally. Yes, I’d be glad if you would look in. That would be better still, but I don’t want you to feel I’m taking too much on my own... all right. Fair enough. If I find Ginger or should he come back here I’ll let you know. Okay. Goodbye.” Biggles hung up and turned to Eddie. “As you may have gathered from that Marcel has spoken to the driver of Ginger’s cab.”